


Who Knackered Aragorn's Catamite?

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - OOC to good purpose, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Fourth Age, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - Surprising reversals, Plot - Tear-jerker, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Politics, Subjects - Technology, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2003-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 82,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.</p><p>Mithril Awards 2003 - Runner-up - Best characterisation – original character<br/>Mithril Awards 2003 - Finalist - Best Fourth Age or beyond<br/>Mithril Awards 2003 - Finalist - Best novel/serial</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Body of the Boy on the Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

My name’s Goss. I’m a cop.

Short for Goswedriol son of Gandalf – yes, I thought that would prick your ears up. I don’t go bragging about my father’s name. Nor do I conceal it. It’s mother who’s the big secret. Though most people manage to guess.

My father once said I had about as much magic in me as a horse’s hindquarters. But he was no airy-fairy caller-in of the winds. He was a meticulous researcher, and that’s where I follow in his footsteps. I love truth. I have a passion for facts. For concealed facts. Facts which people don’t want generally noised abroad. In the course of my business I rake up a helluva lot of muck.

I don’t love muck. Alas, it loves me. Everywhere I go it sticks to me. It comes in on the heels of my knee-high boots when I enter someone’s beautifully carpeted home. It drops on me from the balconies as I pace the mean streets. It rings my door bell in the dead of night, and as I take my ear from the judas window it dribbles down my neck. Muck and I are constant companions, perennial partners, but we aren’t lovers. We aren’t even particularly good friends.

Just now I said I was a cop. But I belong to no regular force of law and order. Not the Rangers of the North, nor the agents of the Tower of Guard, nor am I one the fleet minions of the White Council. And I’m certainly not one of the shadowy agents of GUB, the secret police of the Royal Mandate of East Ithilien – the former Mordor. Though at one time or another I have done work for all these agencies.

I’m a freelancer. A bounty hunter.

In these dismal days I’m not short of work. Often I turn work away. I won’t work for elves, for instance – their family affairs are incredibly messy. My father used to say they paired-off at random on Midsummer’s Eve. And as for dwarves... I wouldn’t work for dwarves if they offered me all the dragon-gold under the Lonely Mountain! Their only use for the law is to litigate the crap out of each other. But I suppose that’s better than axing each others’ heads off, over a string of grievances, real or imagined.

But there is some work I can’t turn away. Particularly when it breaks down my door in the middle of the night, sips my wine while it waits for me to dress, and then spirits me off, to arrive at our destination ere break of day.

 

 

 

Dawn was glimmering on the face of Mount Mindolluin as we rode through the Great Gate of Minas Tirith. In his office in the guardhouse of the Citadel, Bergil son of Beregond, Captain of the Tower of Guard, rose to his feet and strode towards me, hand outstretched. The last time I remembered him doing that, he had brought his mailéd gage smartly across my cheek, hurling me to the floor. But this time he was all smiles. He embraced me like a brother.

“Goswedriol son of Gandalf! How kind of you to come so promptly!”

Turning to glance at my forced companions, fell-faced men in heavy grey cloaks clasped with the Star of Elbereth, I murmured “I didn’t have a lot of choice...”

“Necessity constrains us all,” replied Bergil. “But it doesn’t excuse discourtesy – that I know full well.”

He lowered his wrinkled forehead and shook it. “I crave your forgiveness, Master Goswedriol. Dread happenings darken the counsels of men, but sharpen their mind to the exclusion of everyday courtesies.”

Waving towards a high-backed chair strewn with ermine skins he bade me be seated. Without a word the fell Rangers of the North turned as one man and filed out of the room, leaving me alone with Bergil.

Speaking into the voice tube Bergil sent for wine and little white cakes for two. I leaned back in the elaborately carved chair and took out my pouch of pipe-weed. I lit my old clay pipe. Beneath my eyebrows, grown bushy like my father’s, I noted with sly satisfaction the look of distaste on Bergil’s face. I had not asked his permission. Had I done, he would have refused it. Such was his abhorrence of weed of any sort.

“What a grave matter it must be to compel you to call on me,” I said in the high tongue of Gondor. “What has come to pass?”

Bergil looked down at the blotter on his desk. “Death,” he murmured.

“Who’s to die?”

“Who has died? – that should have been your question. And as for who is to die – for the deed – that is something you yourself must discover.”

“I should have thought you had scores of men under your command who were capable of that,” I observed. “It is getting on for fifty years since the downfall of the Lord of the Rings, yet death still stalks the land. In a city the size of Minas Tirith I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t have a murder a week to deal with. Particularly in the seedy purlieus of the First Circle...”

“It was the King himself who proposed you for the task.”

I raised my chin and blew a smoke ring. “I’m flattered, of course,” I said. “But why didn’t you prevail upon your Lord to assure him you were well capable of handling the matter all by yourself?”

“The identity of the person killed, and the circumstances of his death, call for absolute discretion. The affairs of the victim are shrouded in darkness...”

“ _Muck_ , you mean? And who’s the great expert on muck in Middle Earth? Why me, of course. There’s nobody else who would handle half the jobs I get called upon to do. So I suppose I’m being expected to pull your mucky chestnuts out the fire?”

Bergil flushed in confusion. “I would never shirk my duty, no matter how distasteful, much less fob it off onto somebody else. Particularly onto _you_.” He paused to let that sink in. “But in matters concerning the King’s own household, the men under my command are too well known in the City. It would be impossible to secure the silence of every one, much less the people they come into contact with.”

He sighed, like a man surrounded by one fool too many. “No, what has occurred demands that as few people as possible know about it. Just you and I – and the King himself.”

“That considerably limits my power of investigation,” I observed dryly. “If I’m not to divulge the nature of the crime, how can I go making inquiries in the City, without tongues wagging beneath every arch?”

“It is most unlikely that anyone in the City will be able to assist you. The provenance of your mission, should you accept it, might well embrace the whole of Middle Earth. That in itself would disqualify the agents of the Tower of Guard, who are forbidden to depart the City without the gravest reason. It confines the matter to the attention of someone like yourself: well-travelled, well-connected, and possessed of the widest knowledge and experience.”

“In other words, steeped in every sort of muck known to elf and man.”

“Will you do it?”

“I’d better see the body first, assuming the agents of the Tower of Guard haven’t poked it around too much. I need to know how the victim died.”

“Of course,” said Bergil. “But first I must swear you to secrecy. Place your hand on this mace and repeat after me...”

“Cut the crap,” I said. “I have already signed dozens of documents lodged with the Steward of Gondor, vowing on pain of death never to disclose the secrets of the Realm. None of them bear any expiry date – all are operative till the King bids otherwise, or death takes me, or the world ends. Why don’t your blasted bureaucrats collate some of these things and have them handy for when I come?”

“I am sorry,” said Bergil. “It’s a lot easier to get you to sign a new one than persuade the clerks in the registry to rummage for one that may already exist.”

I threw up my hands in disgust. The pipe fell from my lap, strewing ashes over Bergil’s magnificent black and silver rug. To his credit, he said not a word. Grave matters do indeed “sharpen the counsels of men”.

We crossed the white-paved courtyard of the Citadel, past the silver fountain and the White Tree, making for the magnificent Tower of Ecthelion and the bedchambers of the King’s household. A guard of honour formed up around us, tall men draped in long black cloaks emblazoned with the Tree in silver thread and bearing on their brows the tall winged mithril helmets of the Tower of Guard.

 

 

 

The guy was dead.

Very dead.

As dead as a decapitated ringwraith, and that’s doubly dead.

His spare lithe body lay twisted amid sweaty rumpled sheets on a king-sized bed with brass bed-knobs, having clearly expired in the last extremes of unspeakable passion. There was a faint barbecued smell lingering on the stuffy air, as if someone had been trying to make mulled wine out of pig’s guts. His eyes protruded from his purple face. I looked for a mark on his naked skin, for any sign of ligatures around his wrists or neck. But there was none.

How could a man look as if he had been hanged without any mark on his neck? Drawing on kid gloves I carefully probed the body, trying to determine the nature of the abuse he had suffered. Under Bergil’s watchful eye I felt it wise to stay as far as possible within the bounds of decency. Which is why I missed the vital clue. In the end I decided it was a job for the Inspector of Corpses.

“We cannot take into our confidence any official of the City itself!” declared Bergil.

“The cause of death is something of which I must be absolutely certain!” I cried. “Bring me a sword.”

Bergil held back in astonishment, then drew his own and presented the hilt to me. I snatched it and, whirling it around my head, I struck downwards with all my might. At one blow the victim’s head was severed completely from his shoulders. I wrapped it in a pillowcase and gave it to the astonished Bergil to hold. I watched as the dark congealing blood oozed from the severed neck. I had a purpose in doing this, for it gave me no pleasure to observe, as it might have given some people. In my mind I uttered a secret charge and when the pool had reached the size of a dinner platter I stopped reciting and noted the last word I had said. This told me that the victim had been dead for eight-and-three-quarter hours.

Wiping the sword on the bed sheet I handed it back to Bergil. Then I got him to help me roll the body up in the remaining sheets. Opening the lid of a chest of bed linen I threw out the contents, then Bergil and I dragged the shrouded body over to the chest and crammed it inside.

“Why in the name of the White Tree are we doing this?” pleaded Bergil.

“Do you want secrecy or don’t you?” I snapped. “If you do, then there are certain things we must do all by ourselves, before we enlist the help of others.” Then I pulled on the bell rope to summon a servant.

The man who came was stopped outside the door by the guards, who had themselves been strictly forbidden to look inside. Instead one rapped on the door with the hilt of his drawn sword.

“What is the victim’s name?” I hissed. Bergil replied: “Morfindel”. I put my head round the door and said to the servant “Master Morfindel lies indisposed within and wants no coming and going. Fetch two bearers for a heavy burden.” Turning back to Bergil I asked him to name a collection point. Then putting my head out of the door again I called after the servant, demanding him to bring me pen and parchment.

“What is your counsel now, Master Goswedriol?” I could see Bergil was nigh at his wits’ end. I replied, “I’m writing a message to the Inspector of Corpses, to send bearers to your nominated collection point to take charge of an unknown corpse. Without the head he will not be able to identify the body. At least we hope not. Nor will anybody know where it was found, save us two. But the Inspector of Corpses will readily ascertain the cause of death. I know him: he is a man not short of wits. It will be apparent to him that the head was taken from the body many hours after death. You know, and I know, that the victim’s neck bore not the slightest mark. The cause of death lies elsewhere.”

I dreaded to think where. But I guess I already knew.

 

 

 

“I stand in awe of your presence of mind,” murmured Bergil. We were back in his office, the door was barred and the victim’s head was lying unwrapped upon his desk. “Thanks to you, we have been able to prevent rumour of this dreadful matter being noised abroad.”

“For the moment,” I said.

“Might the death have been natural?” ventured Bergil. “Or at least, unintended? A death can hardly be called ‘natural’ when it has so clearly occurred within the context of an unnatural act. But an act to which the young Morfindel, I fear, was no stranger.”

“No, this was no accident. He was killed deliberately. No matter how vigorously you took your pleasure, using purely the instruments of the flesh, you could not bring a man to the extremes we see on this tormented visage. The victim died in agonies both exquisite and prolonged.”

“That was my feeling too, when first I saw the body. So we are dealing not just with the death in scandalous circumstances of Morfindel, the King’s Favourite, but with Wilful Murder.”  
  
“Morfindel,” I murmured to myself. I had heard the name before, but I couldn’t remember where.

“Morfindel son of Gollum,” said Bergil. It was my turn to be gob-smacked.

“Gollum!” I cried. “ _Gollum_? Are we talking about _the_ Gollum?”

“Indeed we are,” replied Bergil. “The sneaky little creature who possessed the One Ring for many a long year and kept it concealed at the very roots of the Misty Mountains.”

“However did Gollum, of all people, come to have a son?”

“It is a pathetic tale,” said Bergil. “While he was yet a Ranger, King Elessar himself captured Gollum and handed him over to the Elves of Mirkwood, to keep close captive.”

“That’s right!” I said. “I read it in the Red Book of Westmarch. The elf guards were betrayed and orcs fell upon them and killed them all and so rescued the creature Gollum.” But Bergil shook his head slowly, a wry smile on his face.

“The Wood-Elves are not noted for being sloppy gaolers,” he replied. “Nor for being surprised and overcome in their own woods by orcs. The elf guards were indeed betrayed, but orcs were not involved in the betrayal itself. That was an inside job, from beginning to end.”

“Did Legolas son of Thranduil know that, when he reported Gollum’s escape to the Council of Elrond?”

“I think we can exonerate Legolas and his royal father from complicity in the matter. Though not perhaps from a too ready acceptance of what the bodyguard of King Thranduil chose to tell their master.”

I whistled long and low. “I never did believe the story,” I said. “It seemed most improbable. So there was a cover-up! Somebody should have been punished.”

“Somebody was. At one stage Gollum had been given into the care of an elf maiden, Gladlas was her name. If the Wood-Elves have a fault, it is pity. Pity for all living things. Although Gollum was one of the most despicable of creatures, he was at least a living body. The heart of Gladlas went out to him in his snivelling, piteous condition, and she often came to comfort him. She did whatever she could for him, something of which Gollum, true to his nature, was quick to take advantage. As a result they carried on a clandestine affair for a year or more and she bore his child.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “How could an elf maiden do a thing like that? Even in the extremes of boredom. And with such a one!” Yet I reminded myself that they’re all as randy as cats in the moonlight, every last one of them. And don’t they say that all cats are grey in the dark?

“She it was who tricked the guards and allowed Gollum to escape. She paid dearly for her indiscretion. King Thranduil imprisoned her deep within the dungeons of his forest fastness, where she died just a few years ago. No empty barrels to bear her out of bond!”

I chuckled grimly. “Yes, I daresay they tightened security a bit, after the exploits of Bilbo Baggins.”

Bergil continued. “The child of that union was not at all foul to look upon, as you might have expected. His father had been indeed a perian, a primitive proto-hobbit, and doubtless therefore fair of form, before the One Ring devoured him in the dark. The young Morfindel could have laid claim to being halfelven on his looks alone, although there are few of _that_ kindred who would happily claim him as their own.”

Staring at the tormented head on his desk, Bergil muttered, “It is hard to see it now, but the boy resembled a halfling, yet one of the fairest of that race. As a stripling lad I made friends with a halfling and I thought him wondrous fair to look upon. He went on to become a famous warrior and Knight of the Realm, in the very Company of the Tower of Guard. One of the Heroes of the Ringwars! Yet he remembered me and came back in later years to visit me. He had grown no taller, but his youthful beauty had long since faded. His face, though jolly, was the face of a chubby little old man. But from my boyhood memories I can well sympathise with the heart of my lord the King.”

I smiled inwardly. I know Peregrine Took well, the hobbit in question, and I know how partial he is to a jug of ale, as indeed I am. His boyish good looks hadn’t long survived _that_ regime. He was no chicken now.  
  
“The dreadful story of the orphaned son of Gollum came to the ears of the King, who readily recalled his own part in it. His anger at the dereliction of the Elves of Mirkwood had abated over the years and he was sorry for the fate of the mother and her changeling child. He had the boy brought to court, taking him ever closer into his favour.”

Bergil rose to his feet and took a deep breath. “More than that I will not reveal. It is not seemly, so to do.”

He could have belted me over the head with a haunch of venison, the stunned way I must have returned his stare. I exhaled slowly, trying not to whistle. “So that’s the reason for all the secrecy!”

“Do you accept the mission?”

“If I don’t, I suppose you’ll have to slay me on the spot.”

“And have two heads to dispose of, and two bodies,” replied Bergil bleakly. “Don’t make me do it.”

“Morfindel son of Gollum,” I muttered slowly, picking up the head and staring into a face bloated with agonies beyond belief. “How did you die? And why?”

But the face wasn’t telling.

Looking Bergil straight in the eye I thrust the head into his hands, saying “Get that pickled and returned to me. _I need to know_.”


	2. The Inspector of Corpses has his say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

Bergil was drumming his fingers on his desk as I walked into his office. Because I was late.

The only other person there was the Inspector of Corpses. Bergil sat at his desk and the Inspector of Corpses stood towering over him, like a withered old tree which had lost its bark. There came a rattling sound behind me as the guards barred the door.

“We waited for you,” said Bergil, “because I want the Inspector to say what he has to say but once. Thereafter he is on oath to reveal to nobody what has passed here between the three of us.”

The Inspector cleared his throat. Belying his appearance, his voice was full and throbbing. I imagined his buttons drumming on his ribs as he spoke.

“I examined the body personally. It was of a young man, one scarcely out of boyhood, seemingly. Yet by virtue of his kinship he may have been as much as fifty years of age. Prior to death his state of health was excellent. His muscles were small and his limbs delicate – no warrior this, but a scholar maybe, even a courtier. I am of the opinion however that in life he was far stronger than he looked.”

He paused, staring at me keenly, intending that the full import of those words should sink in.

“Therefore, in view of the hideous and painful death he underwent, I found it surprising that there was no evidence that he had put up a struggle. No scratches, no bruises or abrasions, no skin or hair from his assailant (or assailants) under his fingernails.”

“How – ?” I stopped and cleared my throat, resuming in my quietest voice, “how came he to die?”

“The head had been severed from the body by a single blow from a sword. It is deeply to be lamented that when the body was delivered to me, the head did not accompany it. I might have discovered much from it. The expression on the victim’s face. The last image ingrained upon his eyeballs. The very last thoughts in his brain. All these could have been distilled from the flesh and would have told us much.”

“And is that how he died, by being beheaded?”

The Inspector looked me up and down with withering scorn.

“No, Master Goswedriol, that is not how he died. The body was decapitated as late as eight-and-three-quarter hours after death. Whoever found the body, or left it to be delivered to me, was of a mind to prevent me from recognising the victim. It is hard to avoid the suspicion that it was assumed that I personally might have been able to identify him.”

The Inspector’s eyes were boring into me. Mustering deep reserves of willpower I prevented myself from shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another. But it is impossible to address all bodily signs of discomfort at one and the same time, so I harboured no illusion that I was fooling the Inspector one little bit with my affectation of nonchalance. It was on the tip of my tongue to propose that the Inspector and I change places, he clearly being a detective himself of remarkable talent. But an inner voice warned me that the range of ripostes available to him were ones I might not care to hear.

I spoke again in my quiet monotone. “How then did he die?”

“He died through the agency of an instrument, neither sharp nor blunt, heated to white heat and thrust deep into his anal orifice. Which was then vigorously dragged round and round. Sufficient, if I may quote the common speech of my young halfling assistant, to make kebabs of his guts.”

I permitted my mask to slip, raising my eyebrows and emitting a long low whistle. By his expression the Inspector made it clear that he was as little impressed by my show of surprise as he had been by my studied coolness.

“It is egregious,” he said, “to mimic here the sound this would have made.”

I lowered my head and mumbled apologies. The Inspector sniffed and resumed his narrative.

“His screams would have been both agonised and deafening, assuming he had not been gagged, which is of course a possibility, which the absence of the head leaves open.”

The Inspector turned to gaze unseeing beneath hooded eyelids over Bergil’s head. “A supposition which the worthy Captain might wish to bear in mind when he comes to making inquiries in the City. Assuming of course that the body was found in the City.”

It didn’t escape me that the Inspector was careful not to ask where the body actually was found. He knew Bergil as well as I did. The answer would have come back pat: “We are asking the questions, not you.”

Ignoring the Inspectors’ gimlet eyes I resumed my professional monotone. “And what sort of murder weapon are we looking for?”

“Not a sword, nor a dagger, nor any weapon of war, but a humble fireside poker. Though not so humble that pokers of a similar type are not to be found in the apartments of the King’s retinue.” He stressed the word “retinue”.

“The instrument will be discovered to be made of steel, of square cross section behind a substantial tip, of a shape somewhat resembling a carrot. It will be of sufficient length to have seared the heart, ruptured the liver and scored the diaphragm, in addition to the extensive damage it inflicted on all abdominal organs.”

Bergil took a deep breath. “Is there anything else you want to ask the Inspector, Master Goswedriol?” He was trying to copy my flat monotone, which was a voice he never used.

I cast my eyes down. “No, not for the present.”

“Since I have already sworn the Inspector to secrecy, I must warn you that there will be no second chance to confer with him on the matter.”

“There’ll be no...?” I blurted out. Then I recalled it would be no use protesting. Bergil owed his position not to any great capacity for imagination, but to his ability to implement with zeal the most pettifogging ordinances of the Ancient Realm of Gondor.

Bergil rose to his feet. “Then, Master Inspector, that will be all. This matter will not be spoken of again, till you die, or are released from your oath, or the world ends.” He inclined his head.

The Inspector returned the courtesy. Then, turning on his heel, he strode to the door beside which I stood, never letting go my gaze the whole time.

“Guards!” boomed Bergil. “The Inspector of Corpses comes forth!”

The rattling sound was heard again and the door opened. Two helmeted guards, facing each other and looking at nothing, held up both hands in the raised-palm Gondorian salute.

I nodded to Bergil. “I fear that I too must rush away. I left my horse in charge of the ostler with little ceremony. He appeared to me to be a man without initiative and I wish to ensure my horse has been adequately cared for.”

“Is there nothing you would say to me about what you have just heard?”

“Oh yes. Lots. But not this instant.”

What Bergil intended as a shrewd look passed across his brow. “If you’re hoping to catch the Inspector up and have further words with him I must warn you that it will be no use. The men of Minas Tirith are punctilious over matters of duty. They keep their vows.”

Without a word I turned and strode past the guards and through the door.

The Inspector was standing in the front entrance looking outwards, as if he was a man with all the time in the world.

“Excuse me, Master Inspector,” I said, with all the courtesy I could muster. Impelled by my voice, but affecting to ignore me, the Inspector stepped out into the Sixth Circle and, without any prompting from me, set his feet towards the stables. I quickly caught him up and walked alongside him in silence.

“Were you waiting in the entrance to talk to me?” I said eventually.

“My lips are sealed,” came the reply.

“Nevertheless, might there not be something which you would ask of me?”

“Yes. There is.” The Inspector spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “Why is it, Master Goswedriol, that a man publicly proclaimed to be a great lover of truth should utter such prize porkies?”

“I do indeed love the truth, when spoken by other people. On occasions, however, I am disinclined to speak it myself, when silence is the better counsel. But back there in the Captain’s office, did I utter a single untruthful word?”

“Not all utterances consist of words,” observed the Inspector. “Some utter counterfeit coinage. Some utter forged documents. Some even utter corpses, intending to deceive therewith.”

“Please clarify your meaning.”

“I imagine you think you’re being frightfully clever. How long do you suppose you can keep this up?”

“I really must confess, Inspector, to being at a loss to know what you mean.”

“Whither are you heading now?” he said. I thought he was changing the subject, but I soon discovered he wasn’t.

“To the stables, to ascertain the welfare of my horse, which I left behind with unaccustomed haste. After that I go to the Houses of Healing.”

“I will go with you as far as the stables,” he said. “I would have words with you.”

“I should be glad of your company.” I said it in my most professional monotone.

“That remains to be seen. And I suppose you are going to tell me that your errand at the Houses of Healing is to visit Master Morfindel, who lies within: having been conveyed thence through your good offices?”

“Yes...”

“And all the time Master Morfindel, the greater part of him, lies cold upon a marble slab. Yet you profess yourself at a loss to know what I mean.”

“Master Morfindel lives!” I protested.

“In the memory, no doubt. And he will continue to live in the memory for many a long year. The memory will be sweet to some, if not to others.”

He stopped and turned to face me full on. “Your solace for his poor state of health is misplaced. In every sense of the word.”

“I must remind you of the oath you have sworn before Captain Bergil,” I replied, with as much dignity as I could muster. He laughed his dry booming laugh. His buttons I imagined were buzzing fit to fly off.

“I am sorry,” I said, genuinely ashamed of myself. “What I meant was: please keep your voice down and keep to yourself whatever may pass between us.”

“You have my word, Sir,” he said. “As one man of honour to another.”

That dry laugh again. I held out my hand. Gravely, to my surprise, he took it.

Letting go I said, “The true condition of Master Morfindel is known only to Captain Bergil, myself and the King. How then do you presume to share in this knowledge?”

“That I choose not to reveal,” he said. But he said it after a pause, suggesting that he was on the point of telling me something, but bit it back at the last moment. He still did not trust me, I told myself. Just then I could not really find it in my heart to blame him.

We were now outside the stable and I went in to see my horse was properly cared for. It was as well that I did, for the fool of an ostler has left neither straw in the manger, nor water in the trough. When I came out, the Inspector of Corpses was no longer to be seen.

 

 

 

In the southernmost sector of the Sixth Circle stand the Houses of Healing. Grass is a precious commodity in Minas Tirith and most of it seems to have ended up here, around the wards and the operating theatre, the surgeries, treatment rooms and the enormous smokestack. You pass notices saying “Pray Be Silent!” and “Horses may not Pass this Point”, and you’re at the gate house of the complex, which serves also as the house of Lady Éowyn when she resides in Minas Tirith.

Which she does most of the time. For although she dwells with her husband, Lord Faramir, in a stately mansion within sight of Henneth Annûn, it’s rare that she can tear herself away for a day’s riding on the fair slopes of Ithilien, so absorbed she is in the work of being Matron of the Houses of Healing.

Her selfless devotion to the cause of tending the sick ensures that she is well beloved in the City, albeit in a respectful sort of way, because she is a mean woman to cross. I was dreading my interview with her.

I knocked on her office door and opened it diffidently at her peremptory “Come in!”

“Oh it’s you! What you want?”

It was going to be every bit as bad as I feared. “I came to pay my respects, Lady Éowyn, and to thank you for...”

“I wonder you have the gall to come within a mile of me, after your escapade of yesterday. What on earth do you think you’re playing at?”

“It was no escapade, Madam, but the King’s business, a matter of the highest importance...”

“You’re talking just like Morfindel! I would have expected you of all people to know better than to go running around at the beck and call of that – young fellow!” I guessed she was going to use another word, but checked herself. Even Lady Éowyn had to worry about what other people overheard her saying these days.

“My abject apologies, Madam. I came to offer you some explanation.”

“I’d be very surprised if you could! Not content with playing the most objectionable practical jokes on all and sundry, the son of Gollum now gets other people to play them for him! People you wouldn’t expect it of. You don’t suppose for a moment, do you, that the admission of a crude dummy of cords and wrapped cloths, masquerading as the person of Morfindel, wasn’t immediately brought to my attention? And as for ordering my staff, in the King’s name, to attend to the dummy in conditions of the utmost secrecy as if it were a real person – that indeed is something to take exception to!”

“Madam, I must request most respectfully that the order be carried out...”

“I shall get up and hit you in a minute! To start with I thought you were out of your senses! So I straightaway checked with Captain Bergil and was amazed when he backed you up to the hilt! My staff have indeed kept the matter to themselves – I personally shall vouch for that. But it hasn’t elevated either you or Bergil in my estimation, to go co-operating in one of Morfindel’s numerous outrages!”

It was not just the genuineness of her indignation which impressed me, but how she took it for granted that it was all Morfindel’s doing. I realised that in order to secure her co-operation I’d have to tell her the truth.

“Madam, I have something to tell you in the utmost confidence. May I... may I sit down?”

“Oh do!” she shouted. “Please do. I shall give you one minute of my precious time before I pitch you out on your ear!”

Leaning backwards I put my head out of the door and glanced up and down the corridor. No one was within earshot. I closed the door, came back and sat down. As I held the gaze of Lady Éowyn, or rather cringed beneath her glare, I felt I was on the rim of a volcano that at any moment would explode. I knew I had just four words to make my point – no circumlocutions, no beating about the bush. I chose my words carefully.

“Morfindel has been murdered.”

Lady Éowyn’s face flicked rapidly through a series of disparate expressions until finally, uncertain of which one to retain, it settled on reflecting my serious frown.

“His death is being kept a close secret, by order of the King, until we can find out who killed him. The only people who know besides the King are Captain Bergil, myself, and now you. Who know _officially_ , I should add.” My thoughts strayed to the Inspector of Corpses. “To my shame I had to embroil you in a subterfuge. The story to be put about is this: Master Morfindel is gravely ill and is being cared for in strictest seclusion in the Houses of Healing.”

I emitted a sigh of relief, having got that off my chest. Lady Éowyn changed neither her expression nor her position. She looked like one of the gargoyles on the ramparts of the Sixth Circle.

“If you doubt me, and I would have every sympathy with you doing so, then you may check with Captain Bergil, or indeed the King himself, whose ear you have. If I don’t speak the absolute truth, you can have me flogged for the knave I am.”

Éowyn’s voice was quiet and low. “When did this happen?”

“On Thursday, some time in the evening. I’d say around eleven o’clock. Captain Bergil discovered the body at midnight. With great difficulty he and I prevented anyone finding out and at the same time we managed to deliver the body, rendered unrecognisable, to the Inspector of Corpses for his examination – and a dummy into your safekeeping, to give the story some verisimilitude that Morfindel was merely ill.”

“Well,” said Éowyn, “I doubt you’ve been altogether successful in that! In spite of what I can do, there’s no telling how much my staff have gossiped, or will gossip. Although I must say that what goes on here in the Houses of Healing is very rarely noised abroad beyond these walls.”

She sat upright and put her hands in her lap. “So he’s dead, you say? It is a shameful thing to speak ill of the dead, but really it was high time. You aren’t duping me now, are you?”

“If you have the slightest doubt, Madam, you should bid Bergil vouch for me, or even the King. It is essential that I enjoy your fullest co-operation. Your _help_ , indeed, if I dare beg for it.”

Éowyn made her decision without going to any such lengths. “Well, Goss,” she said, “how can I help you?”

“Firstly, by encouraging everyone in your charge to maintain the strictest confidence. The longer we can keep this quiet, the more freedom I have to investigate. It’s not often I can pursue a murder inquiry with hardly anyone knowing that a murder has taken place. But that cannot be relied on for long.”

“I can’t promise you that, for the reasons I’ve just given you. But I’ll do whatever I can. What else?”

“Secondly, if I may ask you a few questions...”

“Yes, of course. Do you want to know where I was on Thursday night? I was here, doing the ward rounds – and there are plenty of people who can vouch for _that_.”

I held up my hands. “My lady, that will not be necessary. You have chosen to accept my word. It is only right for me to do the same for you. But quite probably you will know of things which have a bearing on the matter. Maybe you could name people who might be able to help me with my enquiries?”

Lady Éowyn put her finger to her cheek and thought for a moment. “Names come rushing to mind,” she said. “If this had been anyone else I should have looked at you blankly and confessed that I was unable to help. But when it comes to somebody wanting to murder young Master Morfindel, why – you have your pick of suspects.”

“That is how it seems to me too. But one advantage of confining knowledge of the murder to a handful of people is that whoever is responsible will know about it already. And they may let the fact slip.”

Éowyn’s face made her opinion clear about _that_. “On the other hand, like me, they may simply guess it for themselves.”

“Yes, alas, and maybe discuss it with others, whom they imagine are also privy to the secret. Such as the Inspector of Corpses. Has he said anything to you?”

“No, but the good Megastir keeps his opinions to himself, unless he gets the opportunity to tax you about your own in private. Does he have any suspicions then? If he does, how is it that you know about them?”

“Precisely because he has already ‘taxed me in private’. I’m reassured to hear from you that you consider him a man of confidence. Perhaps he won’t go spreading it around.”

“I shouldn’t think so. Though there is no knowing what confidences he utters to the bodies he’s cutting up. Did you confirm his suspicions?”

“I wasn’t sure of him, so I tried to dissimulate. He wasn’t having any of it. Somehow he knew already.”

“Well,” said Éowyn briskly, “that puts him at the top of your list of suspects – or it serves to convince you that your precious secret is as leaky as a sieve.

“I have a bad feeling it’s the latter. But a public announcement would awaken all manner of wild speculation. It’s better if people don’t go talking about it, even if the circle of those in the know grows larger than any of us might care to let it.”

Éowyn’s voice was solemn. “How did he die?”

“Most cruelly, my lady. The Inspector of Corpses made his report to Captain Bergil and myself this morning. When I first saw the body I could see no mark upon it. But it appears that someone stirred Master Morfindel’s entrails with a white-hot poker.”

Éowyn wrinkled her nose and frowned deeply to express her loathing. But, being a nurse, nothing could shock her.

“I’ve just thought of someone who could possibly help you. Quite apart, that is, from the people you and I can both think of without the slightest effort. Why don’t you go and have a word with young Aelvsson in Minas Ithil? Hangs out in the Headless Horseman, I’m told.”

“Thank you, Madam,” I exclaimed. “I know it well.”

“Do you now! What a thrill for you. It’s not a place I’ve ever had the slightest inclination to go in. Quite apart from the fact that my face is too well known in Ithilien. And I’d like to keep it to just my _face_!”

I grinned at the old battleaxe. Only a person of her standing could get away with saying such things.

I said “I won’t bother trying to convince you that I don’t go there for my health, or my pleasure. Though the beer is good I must admit. But the matters I have to investigate dictate the company I keep.”

“Haugh!” She barked a token laugh. “No, I don’t envy you. Not in the least. I don’t envy you the company of crotchety old women, cheese-paring policemen, and the corpses of people who are never so good than when they’re _dead_.”  



	3. Royal Audiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

I followed a few steps behind the ancient equerry as we trudged up the worn stone flags of the spiral staircase. When we reached the highest balcony of the White Tower of Ecthelion the breeze was chill and keen enough to make the banners snap briskly above us. The equerry bowed to the unheeding back of the man who stood looking over the plains of the Pelennor, then he turned and left us alone together.

The man had not moved, nor given any sign that he was aware of my presence. He and I were the only two people on that high balcony. He had his back to me and his dark hair hung down over the ample collar of his black woollen cloak. But there was no mistaking the man wherever you might have come across him. The broad shoulders, the imposing stance, of Aragorn son of Arathorn, who for fifty years had reigned as King Elessar Telcontar in Minas Tirith.

“At your service, Sire,” I said. The figure turned smartly to face me. I was shocked at how grey and gaunt he had become since we last met. How deeply the passage of time had etched lines of care in bruised niello on his brow.

“Goss!” he laughed. It was like the sun breaking through storm-clouds. “What a long time it’s been since last I saw you.” He grasped my hand, placing his other hand on my elbow. For a fleeting moment I thought how such powerful sinews could twist my arm off like the leg of a cooked chicken. But the smile was a smile of an old friend. A much-loved uncle indeed, who still hadn’t got over the surprise of finding himself King.

He studied my face keenly. “Ai! – how much older you look! But I suppose we all do.”

He sighed and let go of my arm, giving my shoulder a pat. “I miss your face at court,” he said. “As the years lay their wrinkled fingers on you, you grow to look more like your revered father.”

He turned to gaze towards the West, as if his narrowed eyes could penetrate the mountain which stood in his way.

“I miss him so much since he departed from the Grey Havens. I never truly appreciated how much I’d come to rely on his advice. How much we all had! I was hoping you might grow to take his place. But for all the lines on your brow, you have many years ahead of you before you would match your father in age and experience. Why haven’t you become a wizard?”

I shrugged in embarrassment. “The life of a bounty hunter satisfies my ambitions. Old Radagast was very kind. He said he’d be happy to have me in the Order at any time. But somehow it doesn’t seem to be me.”

“Radagast – ah, yes. Radagast the Brown – as was. Who’d ever have thought he’d ascend to be leader of the White Council. He goes around saying that they couldn’t find anyone else, bless him – everyone’s sailed away into the West.” Aragorn smiled wanly and shook his head. “But I suppose there was a time when nobody would ever have thought I’d become King!”

I wondered when he’d get to the point. “It was there all along in the stars, Sire.”

He glanced at me sharply. I realised he had read my thoughts. The standard phrase – the routine flattery. I had given myself away.

“You cut through the crap as ever,” he said. “Well, what progress? Have you had a chance to examine the boy’s bedroom?”

“I was doing so when I answered your summons, Sire.”

“Well, I won’t keep you long and then you can get back to it. But questions are bound to arise in your mind. It seemed as good an opportunity as any to clear them up, insofar as I am able to.”

“Very well, Sire. Yes, there are a number of things that puzzle me. First and foremost, why did you not entrust the matter to your own Captain of the Guard?”

Aragorn came over and put his face close to mine. “Sometimes an outsider can bring a breath of fresh air. For outsider you are, in spite of how well you and I personally know each other. Sheer passage of time has made you into that. You and my court grew up together – you were both born in the very same year. But people have departed, and new people have arrived, since those breezy days when you grew to manhood in my court.”

I said, “And one of those but recently arrived is the late son of Gollum. I never met him, so I shall have to rely on other people’s reminiscences to form an impression of him in life.”

Aragorn’s brow darkened. I had expected it to. “Young Morfindel was not to everybody’s taste.” He sighed slowly.

I suppressed a smile at the idea of the King calling him ‘young’. Morfindel, conceived in the early days of the Ringwars, was a year or two older than I was. Yet, being halfelven, he doubtless looked much younger than his 52 years! I wished the years, passing as swift draughts of mead, had been as kind to me.

“Nevertheless,” I said, “these are matters into which I must delve...”

“I know, I know,” said Aragorn testily. “I wish I could tell you all you needed to know myself. But the very fact that this terrible thing has happened makes it abundantly clear that my own knowledge is imperfect. Else – would I not have been able to prevent it?”

He turned and thrust his hands under his armpits. “Yes – ask around, for all you’re worth. Captain Bergil tells me that you have seen and heard much in your fifty years. He says there is little that can shock you.”

“Nevertheless, Sire, there is much that can distress me. Treachery is always distressing...”

Aragorn rounded on me. “Treachery? Isn’t it a little early to be saying that? This might be nothing but personal animosity between otherwise loyal subjects. Are you certain that it is not so?”

I fidgeted. “No, Sire, I haven’t had time to eliminate that possibility yet. But when somebody so close to the King is struck down, a crime of passion, pure and simple, seems less likely than a blow aimed at the very throne itself.”

Aragorn’s smile was bleak. “Yes, that’s just what I suspect too. But care for the kingdom, mixed with a measure of fear and suspicion of those around me, might be what disposes me to think so. The same cannot be said of you.”

“Are you prepared, Sire, for what I might uncover?”

Aragorn strutted to and fro before replying. “No,” he snapped. “How can one ever be prepared? But the question you really want to ask is this, is it not? Am I prepared to take it from _you_?”

He looked me full in the face and jerked his eyebrows slightly, inviting me to make some response, even a token response, before he would continue. But I quickly decided that a token response would not do.

“That is exactly what worries me, Sire. Captain Bergil laid the commission on me and I accepted it. Not as a friend, but as a mercenary, an outsider. I’m truly grateful that you did not ask me yourself. For it enabled me to be businesslike, to insist on the payment I wanted, to explain carefully the conditions under which I was prepared to work. Had you asked me yourself, I should have felt obliged to respond as to my liege – nay, as to an old friend. Almost – if I may humbly dare to say so – as one of the family.”

Aragorn’s face softened. “And those are exactly the conditions under which I _don’t_ want you to work. I’d rather you came to the job as a dispassionate outsider. One of the reasons I don’t want Bergil investigating it is because we who dwell within the White Tower are enmeshed in a web of kinship, loyalties, alliances, jealousies and, I’m loath to say, ambitions. No, I can’t guarantee to you that I will not be angry. I hope you have set your price high enough to offset the risk of that?” He permitted himself the ghost of a smile.

“I did indeed, Sire.” I permitted myself the ghost of a smile in return. “But I also made it clear to Captain Bergil that it was not to him personally I was reporting (though I would of course keep him up-to-date), but my service was ultimately to your Majesty alone.”

Aragorn smiled broadly in satisfaction. “You’ve anticipated me, Goss,” he said. “I won’t insult you by insisting on your absolute discretion.”

“And I won’t insult you, Sire, by insisting on absolute veracity in what we say to each other. It may at times be necessary to call things by their real names, without wondering how the other person is going to take it.”

The old Aragorn I knew and loved burst forth in a hearty laugh. “I always thought there was something about the hobbit in you, Goss,” he said. “I haven’t heard the like since Mayor Samwise came to stay. Perhaps it’s because you knock around with the little people so much. So utterly different from the courtly etiquette of this venerable, constipated old City.”

“Then by your leave, Sire, I will continue with my questions.” The smile faded from Aragorn’s face and a weariness stole over it. He drew himself up, as if readying himself for a blow.

“How did the Queen take to the installation of a catamite?”

The King displayed not the slightest sign of affront. At that moment he looked the most kingly I’d ever seen him.

“Badly. It’s no secret that the fierce love we felt for each other in the early days has paled in recent years. Then, we were inflamed with the ardour of victory, of terrors overcome, of hopes unhoped-for, sprung anew. Hopes for a future which in those darkest of days had seemed so very far away.”

He sighed sharply. “Well, the future is here. Now. It’s been delivered and signed-for. And it’s everything we expected it to be. Nothing is more corrosive of ardour. If only there had been more difficulties to surmount! If only things have not gone quite so well – new enemies had appeared – dangers threatened the Realm. That would have drawn us together again. Our love was forged in adversity – it has languished in peace and plenty.”

I allowed not the slightest trace of pity to appear on my face. I kept it strict and businesslike. I knew that was what he wanted.

“Did any rumour come to your ears of the Queen and Morfindel plotting against each other?”

“Oh yes. Plenty of people came to me with tales of the tensions between them. And I set my spies. But everybody was for taking sides. Nobody could I trust to tell me the truth dispassionately. Always I suspected that the speakers had personal interests in telling me the things they did.”

“But did the Queen and Morfindel actually make a move against each other? You appreciate why I ask...”

“Of course I do. I heard tales that Morfindel was trying to displace me in the Queen’s affections. Others would have it that he made haughty assumptions about what he supposed was the special relationship between them. The Queen on the other hand would pour out her complaints about him into my ear. But – perhaps it was because I did nothing – the complaints died away in frequency until she bothered me no more with them. I admit I was relieved. But ought I rather to have been alarmed? Because she was either bottling up her resentment, or pouring it out into others’ ears. Ears of others by whom she might indeed have been seeking redress.”

Gazing at the ground between his toes he seemed to be on the point of putting his foot on a spider, drawing back at the last moment. “But no! No actual plots ever came to my notice, of the one trying to unseat the other, or being revenged on the other. That is not to say there were none.”

“Her Majesty the Queen is a mighty lady,” I observed cautiously, “and she has powerful family connections. Did the possibility not occur to you, Sire, that she might respond tragically to your taking a catamite?”

I was trying not to provoke the King, but I could see he was beginning to wilt under my probing.

“How right I was to employ you, Goss! It is the hallmark of a good consultant to ask the obvious questions without beating about the bush. This is wisdom, the like of which I could not find in the whole of this city.”

He turned and leaned heavily on the balustrade. I came and leaned there too. Together we looked down upon the White Tree in the courtyard. Its branches were bare – but it could not be long before its buds were due to fatten and burst. A small knot of people had gathered in the courtyard. I could imagine them saying: “Lo! The King comes forth to take the mid-day air. But who is that with him?” Since my face was not well known in the City, the speculation would run rife.

Aragorn did not seem to care. He seemed oblivious of the audience.

“When I was a wild Ranger, with nobody to attend to my pleasures, my sole delight was to fix my thoughts upon my lady fair. It’s a different matter in the tedious comfort of the court. A king is expected to do whatever he likes – and there are plenty of people who will make haste to satisfy his wishes and whims, whatever those may be, and whatever they imagine them to be.”

He turned against the balustrade, leaning backwards. “But still it does not do to dally with the womenfolk of one’s loyal subjects. If there is one single rule a king must obey, that is it. Nothing breeds disloyalty and treachery faster. On the other hand, a king should surround himself by single young men, to counteract the weary wisdom of the old fogies who surround him by right of seniority. And young men will come, with the blessing of their fathers, to feed off his wisdom and experience.

“But what does a young man have to offer in return? His wit? His wisdom? The sort of young man whom it’s worth having around, whom you could send off to lead an army, quell an uprising, punish bandits, is not the sort who spends long afternoons cultivating courtly speech. You expect him to be good at manly sports, to be strong and enduring, to wield a good sword. And – by the White Tree! – you know me well, Goss, and where I come from. Am I the man to savour courtly speech?”

He sprang away from the balustrade and sighed. “No. Deep in my bosom I nurse a secret desire. To be once again scouring the countryside with my trusty Rangers. The soft life of the court grows irksome, as day follows weary day.

“And what has a young man got to offer me, which I would not seek in dalliance with a lady? Much. A catamite is dynastically safer than a leman. Whatever we may do together, there is absolutely no likelihood that in years to come a bastard will emerge from the backwoods, or a pretender arise on the borders, to come challenging the lawful sons of the throne.”

He stared at his toes. “Alas! If only Arwen and I were to have a son! A son would do much – do everything – to fill the gap in our lives. And the gap in the life of the Realm.”

I realised, the moment he said it, just what the motive may have been for Aragorn to take the son of Gollum under his protection, and from thence progressively into his most intimate confidence. It is every man’s urge to propagate himself. And for men who reside not so much in their bodies as in their minds, there is a more certain way than planting the seed of your body in the belly of a beautiful and blossoming young woman. It is to plant the seed of your mind in the head of a hale and hearty young man. Such a one, a disciple, tested and found true and enduring, may make a better heir than the issue of your own flesh. Was it this, rather than regal dalliance, that prompted Aragorn to surround himself with lively young men? And if people assumed the worst – was he the sort of man to care overmuch?

But he was certainly right about one thing. When choosing a close companion to while away long afternoons, a catamite is indeed dynastically safer than a mistress. A son, even a bastard son, owes his position to inalienable right. A catamite owes his purely to the royal whim.

And then another thought struck me. What is the doom of a catamite of whom his royal master grows weary? Or one who overplays his hand? And there was another doom, too, to enquire.

“What, may I ask, will be the fate of the murderer, when at last he... or she... is brought to justice?”

“Death,” replied the King. His voice was sad and final. “Death at the Stake. It is prescribed in the very foundations of the City.”

“But is there no provision for clemency, Sire? Supposing the killer had been provoked beyond endurance...?”

He shook his head slowly. “I formally took Morfindel under my royal protection. So whatever the provision for normal crimes of passion, killing a Ward of the King must be avenged by death. The doom is mandatory.”

“But you _are_ the King, Sire...”

It was a stupid thing to say. I stumbled in my speech as I tried to make good. “I – I mean – the King himself can set aside any laws, surely? No council would oppose you...!”

“And send the message that the King’s protection counts for naught? That would be a grave step to take. And once the identity of the perpetrator became known, it would be too late to take it anyway. Men would say there is one law for the high and the mighty and another for the rest of the citizenry. It would drag the Ancient Law of Gondor in the dust. Not for _that_ did I ascend the Marble Throne!

“But it is a step you might yet contemplate, Sire, were the killer discovered ere the death of Morfindel be commonly known?”

It was a long time before an answer came. “I... have reached no such decision. The kings of old would slay their very sons for the meanest of transgressions. In that way they established the sacredness of the Ancient Law. In these latter days, some of the things they did would be viewed as harsh in the extreme. But in the end it all depends on what you and I live for, doesn’t it? Is the dynasty more important to preserve than the very fabric of the Realm?”

“Without the King – and his dynasty – who would there be to preserve the Realm for us?”

“But to strike at the roots of that which we have been elevated to preserve! How can we even contemplate such a thing – when in living memory the mightiest among us were poised to lay down their lives for its principles?”

“Sire! Any one of your loyal servants would cut off his own right arm for your sake!”

“No,” replied Aragorn. He spoke as if pronouncing sentence of death. “Say not: for _my_ sake. Say rather: for the sake of the Realm. And am I not the chief of servants – the servant of all?”

I was speechless. What if the perpetrator turned out to be the Queen herself?

“And how indeed am I to preserve my dynasty,” he added, “when I have no heir of the flesh?”

Aragorn turned his head away sharply. I thought I glimpsed a tear in the corner of his eye. There was a catch in his voice as he spoke. “When this business is over I shall go away, for a very... long... holiday. Not to Imladris as old Bilbo did. I could never steel myself to face the sons of Elrond. And certainly not to Lórien’s fair glades, bright though they shine in my memory. The Galadhrim have gone away. Lórien is but a shadow of itself. One can never go back.”

He turned again towards me. “Maybe I shall go to Lake Evendim. It is beautiful there, and lonely...” I could see that a tear did indeed stain his cheek. “And maybe the Queen and I will be reconciled, and perhaps a son will follow...”

His voice tailed off. With a visible effort he composed himself.

“Yet I say this to you, Goswedriol son of Gandalf: I stand in dread of what you may uncover.”

 

 

 

Before leaving the Citadel I penned a brief note, to be delivered to Bergil in person, warning him that the Inspector of Corpses knew our little secret, having guessed it for himself. Then I walked back along Rath Celerdain in the First Circle to the kiosk at the foot of Seventeenth Stair to refill my pouch with pipe weed.

I was vaguely aware of somebody standing close to the doorway as I came out. Somebody who was waiting for me. From the way she was dressed I took her for a scullery maid of one of the rich merchants and avoided looking her in the eye. But she thrust a note into my hand. Then, averting her face and gathering her skirts, she hurried away up the Stair.

As I glanced after her I saw her thrusting past a pair of unsavoury characters whom I took for Dunlendings. There are all sorts roaming the streets of Minas Tirith these days. One of the men caught hold of the maiden’s sleeve just below the armpit, jerking her backwards to fall into his arms.

“Hey, young filly, not so fast! Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

I expected to see her struggle and hear her cry out, but she silently stood her ground, returning his ribald leer with a stern gaze. Imagining she could do with some help I paced up the steps two at a time. Throwing me a glance of panic, she gave a deft flick of her wrist, caught the man’s elbow and, without troubling to use her other hand, sent him pitching and tumbling down the steps to sprawl at my feet.

I knelt down beside him. “Go about your business,” shouted the other man, hurrying down the Stair. “We don’t need your help.” Clearly he had been humiliated to witness his strapping friend worsted by a mere girl. Dismissed so ungraciously I got to my feet and turned my back on the scene. An old man squatting in a doorway waved the stem of his pipe at the two ruffians, one kneeling, one lying, on the Stair.

“Heh-heh! Serves him right – to go standing in the way of _that_ young wench!”

“Do you know her?”

“What? Do you mean to say you don’t recognise the Queen’s bodyguard?”

I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows as I nodded to him and went slowly on my way. I took a swift look at what the maiden had given me. It was a small scroll of the silvery vegetable vellum once popular with the High Elves and it was sealed with the Beechleaf, the sigil of the Royal House of Lórien. I put it straight in my pocket. I didn’t want to be seen reading _that_ in the streets.

A mile out of the city on the road towards Osgiliath I dismounted, took a sip from my flask and broke the seal of the scroll. I knew then as I read it that I would have to return to the City forthwith.

“Back so soon, Master Goswedriol?” said the ostler as I handed my horse back into his charge.

“I forgot my camomile tea,” I muttered over my shoulder as I hurried out into the street. The reputation for absent-mindedness did me no harm at all. It justified my erratic movements to those who would go seeking other explanations in idle chatter.

I checked into the Grey Wanderer in the First Circle. The note had invited me to a tryst in the Mallorn. But I knew better than to check-in at the same inn. I climbed the stairway to the grassy terrace around the great spur of sharp rock that juts out east from Mount Mindolluin and cleaves the city like a dragon’s chine. There I sat on the stone balustrade beside a skeletal gargoyle, lit my pipe and pondered.

 

 

 

At sundown I made my way to the Mallorn. It is the trysting place of rich burghers, who were chatting easily to each other. They offered me barely a glance as I wended my way between the tables. To them I was no more than a shabby wanderer. I sat down in a high-backed pew to the right of the fireplace, as the note had bidden me, and ordered a beer.

But no beer came. For almost immediately the maiden who had slipped me the note that afternoon stood close by, looking down upon me without expression. I motioned to her to sit down in the seat opposite. I wondered if it was this girl I had been invited to meet, but I quickly dismissed the idea. She was so evidently the servant of someone higher. A comely wench, but not altogether Gondorian. There was something hobbitish about her face, although in stature she was no halfling.

She would not sit down and tugged at my sleeve to rise up and follow her. I did so and we went up a narrow stairway and I found myself in a room with dark, rich furnishings of indigo velvet. A freshly made fire blazed in the grate. The room was lit only by the fire and by two tall candles, which stood on a finely carved table and flung their light uselessly to the dark walls. Their flames gleamed from the polished wood and from the glistening surface of silverware bearing fruits and meats from distant lands.

As I gazed at the table, a exquisitely manicured hand lifted a silver ewer and poured dark wine into two goblets. The lady had been sitting in such gloom that I’d failed to remark her presence.

I sat down opposite her and raised one of the goblets. “Hail, your Majesty,” I said.

In a quiet voice the Queen returned my greeting.

“Please call me Arwen,” she said. “Here we are alone beyond the White Tower, with only my lady-in-waiting within call. There is no need to stand on ceremony.”

As I sipped the wine she continued, “I imagine you can guess why I wanted to speak to you, out of the sight of watchful eyes and the hearing of prying ears.”

I stiffened. Was she referring to the scandalous tattle about the son of Gollum? Or was she party to the “secret” which was supposed to be known only to Bergil, myself, and the King? And of course, to the Inspector of Corpses and Lady Éowyn, though that could be put down to their own diligence. I decided to proceed with circumspection.

“A sorry business, my Lady. A sorry business. But rest assured...”

“Rest the rest of fools,” she snapped. “That’s the sort of thing Captain Bergil says. He’s going to absurd lengths to hush it all up. As well try to carry water in a spider’s web. In a day or two it will be out and all over the City. And I will hardly dare to show my face in public for the shame of it.”

“My royal Lady! Surely this matter impinges upon your honour not one tiny bit!”

“You know, Goss,” she said, “for someone of your intelligence, you do say the stupidest things. My Lord’s honour is my honour too. Can you imagine what people are going to say?”

I splayed my hands. “The kings of old had catamites. Dynastically it is the safest thing to do.”

“You’ve been talking to Aragorn,” she said, with weariness in her voice.

“I shall have to talk to everyone concerned, sooner or later,” It was clear she knew the truth. “It is the King’s business I’m on now. Wherever my own sympathies might lie (and I am but a lowly commoner) the perpetrators must be caught and punished.”

She nodded slowly, then she clutched her goblet to her breast in passion. “And where _do_ your sympathies lie in this matter, Goss? With the victim? With the King? Or with the genuinely injured party? Could they possibly come to lie with... me?”

“I was not acquainted with Master Morfindel,” I replied hesitantly, “although his acquaintances were many. His friends were fewer... and his enemies were legion.”

“Well, they’ve got him. And it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

I leaned back in my chair, struggling in my mind for the right words to say.

“Nice guys rarely get murdered,” I said at last. “When they do, it generally has little to do with them in themselves. Usually more to do with a bungled attempt to relieve them of their property. But the Law is the Law. The punishment is not my business. In this matter, above all, it will be a chore reserved to the King himself. But the hunting and catching of the murderer is my business, at the King’s behest. Why, what would _you_ have me do, my Lady?”

“Arwen,” she corrected me again. “Oh yes, the Law is the Law. But you are no Bergil, no man of brass, heedlessly carrying out your master’s will. Indeed the King himself appointed you because he was sure you would handle the matter with sympathy and discretion. Sympathy with everyone concerned... but trusting no-one.”

She fixed me with her queenly gaze. “No-one!” she repeated.

She inquired then about my wanderings. Especially she wanted to hear about the people of the Shire. I happened to remark that I saw a lot of them in my travels and she smiled.

“Methinks they have a special place in your heart, am I not right?” When I nodded she said, “Just like your father.”

“In former times they used to keep themselves to themselves. But now, since the exploits of Frodo Ninefingers, I imagine I see their cheery faces everywhere I go. Why, even your maidservant...”

Her chuckle was low and melodious. “Well spotted, son of Gandalf the Wise,” she said. “Her mother is indeed a perian, albeit her father is a lord among men. You can see the perian in her face, but she is anything but a halfling in physique.”

“Then that must be the Lady Elandrine!” I exclaimed. “Daughter of Elanor the Fairbairn and Fastred of the Western Towers! How rude of me! Yet she was attired as a humble serving girl and it didn’t cross my mind to greet her courteously.”

Arwen laughed merrily and called out her name. “Come, Mistress Elandrine, your disguise wasn’t good enough to fool Master Goswedriol.” Elandrine, lady-in-waiting to Queen Arwen, as her mother before her had been, stepped out of the darkness and laughingly refilled my goblet.

“I thought we were alone,” I said.

“We are. You may speak freely in front of Elandrine.” Arwen smiled a wicked smile. “You may even speak _to_ her!”

I looked up into Elandrine’s eyes and saw there warmth for the first time. I said, “I admired the way you handled... er, things, this noontide. Did you tell your mistress about it?”

“Very briefly. It’s all in a day’s work.”

“Where did you learn to handle... men like that?”

“In Edoras, among the fighting folk of King Éomer.” Turning from the table with a coquettish swish of her skirt and a defiant toss of her black hair she remarked, “I’m a shieldmaiden, you know, hardened in battle.”

“Elandrine has my total confidence and I rely on her for my personal safety. The Queen goes nowhere these days unless it be with a trusted handmaiden. Not even to a secret tryst.”

“That is very good counsel, Mistress,” I said. “In the troubled times that are upon us, the Great may walk in danger. I have the feeling that this isn’t just a family affair, a palace plot. Rather it is a matter which strikes at the very heart of the Realm. Intrigue seems to cluster round the late and scarce lamented son of Gollum, like wasps round a honey pot.”

“That I know full well,” she replied, as Elandrine retired into the darkness. “The son of Gollum had ambitions. High ambitions. Can you guess just how high?”

“No, my Lady?”

“You still hang back from calling me Arwen,” she said, and I lowered my eyes.

“Please forgive me, my royal Lady, but it comes hard for such as me. You are so high... and I am so low.”

“Hm! I can think of dozens lower.”

Since I would not raise my eyes to meet hers fully, she sighed. Exasperation was in that sigh, and frustration, and what else I dared not think. Leaning her dimpled chin upon her graceful wrist, she said, “Master Morfindel, for instance. He found no difficulty at all in addressing me as plain ‘Arwen’. Even unbidden and in the hearing of others. Aragorn was deaf to my plaints, as well as blind to the aspirations of that young scamp. The presumption! To see how he minced around and lorded it over the household, you would have thought it was _he_ who was King and not my Lord. There was even tattle to the effect that Aragorn was thinking of adopting him as his heir – having failed to get one by me.”

She buried her face in her hands. I was sure that tears were about to fall. But she lowered her hands again and set her jaw grimly.

“Even before the murder the atmosphere in the White Tower was asphyxiating. It has since become doubly so. I think I may retire to the glades of Lothlórien for a few months. A few years...”

Queen Arwen suddenly began to stare fixedly at my hands. “I see rings of Power,” she declared, with voice pitched low. “I was about to ask: how came you by them? But I recall that you, of all people, might well have as good a title to them as anyone.”

“Yes, I suppose I might.” I said it without pride. I extended my fingers and looked at the white ring on my left hand and the red ring on my right. “People never seen to remark on them, but they don’t go out of their way to conceal themselves. Not these days. Even if they did, you of all people would still be able to see them. Of course, ever since the unmaking of the Ruling Ring, they do damn-all. They don’t make me invisible. But I still wear them, as keepsakes.”

“What if they _did_ make you invisible? What if you were someone loved and trusted by the King, not to say those closest to him? (As indeed you are, did you but know it)...”

I laughed a dry laugh. “Since we are talking about the impossible, my Lady, it is no shame to admit that I have never spent a moment dwelling upon it.”

“That’s strange, for a lore-master,” she said. “Ever since the Rings were forged, tales have been told about what might happen if one fell into the wrong hands. Have you never heard tell of the courtier of old, who found a ring of Power and used it to spy unseen upon the Queen – naked in her very bedchamber? He so lusted after her that he plotted to ravish her, then kill the King and marry her, and so become by right of marriage King himself. This he did – and no-one was able to prevent him, because he could make himself invisible and pass through the strongest guard and under the most watchful eyes...”

“Please, my Queen, I find this sort of talk distressing. In the company of one so lovely, to hear it told of ravishings and treasons and sorcery and killing...”

She laughed. “If I could only believe that for a moment. Am I able to shock you? You, of all the loyal subjects of the Realm, who have stumbled upon the darkest secrets – which none dare speak of?”

I too laughed, but hesitantly. “Least of all me, my Lady.”

To my relief she diverted the topic, saying gently. “Tell me then about your rings.”

“This,” I said, holding up the ruby ring, “is Narya the Great. My father gave it to me before he sailed away into the West.”

Arwen nodded and a smile, secret and beautiful, played on her lips. “And this,” I said, holding up my left hand...

“... is Nenya, the Ring of Adamant.” Arwen took the words out of my mouth.

I stared at her for a moment and then I too smiled. “Of course. You would know it well.”

On a sudden impulse I took it from my finger and placed it in her soft palm. “Please accept it,” I said, “with my deepest devotion. It was given to me by my mother...”

Realising what I had just revealed, my jaw dropped and I stared at her. She returned my gaze, searching deeply into my eyes. Softly she said, “It is true then, what my people say. You are indeed of the kin of Lórien.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You are indeed my half-brother!”

My brain reeled. One grows up with these things, giving them so little thought as a child, that even in adulthood one misses the most glaring facts. Which any fool can see, if he happens to be an outsider. A voice started crying in my head: no – No – _NO_!

With an enigmatic smile Arwen took my hand and replaced the ring on its finger. I saw then that she was wearing the third of the elf-rings on her own hand. The ring Vilya, the Protector, which her father Elrond would have given her, before he too sailed away into the West.

“How did it come about?” I whispered in my turn.

“When Gandalf, your father, was brought back nine parts dead by Gwaihir the Windlord from the crag of Zirakzigil where he found him, having thrown down his enemy the Balrog in ruin, he was cared-for in the land of Lothlórien by my grandmother’s own hand. By her he received many fair things to aid him in his battle against the darkness. A cloak of purest white, which he concealed beneath his grey rags. A new-wrought staff, befitting his advancement to Leader of the White Council. The ring Narya. And, as I’ve now come to realise... you. You were conceived, as was I, by the light of the full moon among pale niphredil in the greensward of Parth Galen.”

“I marvel that you can bring yourself to accept me, a bastard, as your kinsman. I suppose it makes me your... uncle?” I couldn’t restrain a gasp as I said the word.

“My people simply say: half-brother. Elves live for such a long time that everyone has gone to bed with just about everyone else by now. It is not unknown to discover you’re your own step-grandfather. We accept these things as elven nature. We don’t go blabbing about them. But nor are we ashamed of them.”

She laughed at the expression on my face. “But I, at least, rejoice in my heart. All unlooked-for I’ve discovered one of my own close kin. One I never for a moment suspected.”

I hung my head. Tears started in my eyes. Softly she said “Hold on tight to your mother’s ring ... _ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen!_ Though it wears but a vestige of its former power, may it aid you in your quest for what is right. Under the Ancient Law of Gondor... and under the will of the King.”

I could not stay there or else I’d be totally compromised. I rose to my feet and made as if to go. She too arose, surprised at my leaving, but I didn’t look back. At the door I felt her hand laid on my forearm. Her lips brushed my cheek. “I’ve always wondered why you were so... beautiful,” she said.

I spoke as one asleep. “Geese would be beautiful – if one had never seen a swan.”

“You know what else they say? Half-brother – half-lover.”

“Half-sister,” I murmured. “My Queen! You are... you are...” My voice choked into silence. I thrust myself out through the scarcely-open door, down the stairs and into the night, continuing under my breath “...my _chief suspect!_ ”  



	4. Low Life in Moon City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

Back in Morfindel’s bedroom I continued my detailed search. There was little enough kept in the bedroom itself by way of clothes and personal effects. Morfindel would have relied upon servants bringing him these as he needed them. Nevertheless the boy would have owned a few personal possessions, of immense value to him. It was these I was looking for. Quite likely he had hidden them away from the prying eyes of servants.

There were pictures round the walls. Some of them quite clearly had been commissioned by the castellan as being generally suitable for palace walls – elf-maidens bathing, scenes from legend and so on. But some were too individualistic for that and clearly pointed to the victim’s personal taste. His father, I recalled, had been an untiring researcher into roots and beginnings. It was clear that his son carried on his father’s interest in these things. There were pictures of musty holes in the bases of trees, rabbit holes and badger holes in riverbanks, woodworm holes in old oak, even holes in socks and other garments. Plenty of pictures of stones with holes in them. In fact if the collection could be said to have a theme, that theme was “holes”. There was a picture of a pile of rings. To begin with I thought it fell into the same category.

I began to take the pictures down from the walls. Some of them were heavy and I examined these for secret cavities. I soon found one or two and began to spend more time than I cared to in trying to open the ingeniously concealed locks and slides, hinges and pivots. I considered having a whole lot sent to a carpenter to take apart and discover all the secret compartments. But it occurred to me that whatever I found was most likely to be something I wanted to keep to myself.

Most of the secret compartments were empty. Some however contained little notes. Writing down the exact locations from which these notes had come I put them in my pocket.

Whilst there was little in the way of chests and cupboards, the room didn’t lack for ornamentation. There was a heavy elaborate arch round the fire, the usual thing: twisted vines and bunches of grapes and little people with flutes poking their heads out at various points. Whilst I was working on the gilded mirror which I had taken down from above the fireplace (and a heavy thing it was too!) I heard a click from the vicinity of the arch and saw portions of the pattern beginning to move. Instantly I dived under the bed and peered out.

The secret door opened, for that’s what it was, and a young man came out. A personable young man, far too well-dressed be a servant. His eyes opened wide when he saw the pictures I had taken from their hooks and placed on the floor. He ran to inspect one or two of them, unerringly locating all the secret compartments which I’d discovered, plus a few I hadn’t.

The intruder was armed with a sword, whereas I was unarmed. I wondered if there’d be time to alert the guards in the passage. But the door was locked – I had wanted total privacy whilst I inspected the scene of crime. I would either have to lie there concealed, possibly letting the intruder get away with vital evidence, or I’d have to disarm him myself without assistance. Judging that I was the bigger and stronger of the two I determined on the latter.

Backing away from the wall he stood close to the bed as he pondered the pictures. Thrusting out a hand I grabbed his leg and pulled sharply. With a shout he came tumbling down. I soon had his sword off him and flung it away to the corner of the room. But he proved stronger than he looked and was soon sitting on top of me, his forearm in an expert stranglehold across my voice-box.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he hissed. Clearly he didn’t want to make a noise which the guards outside would hear. I shook my head and mouthed silently to indicate that he needed to relax his hold slightly for me to be able to speak. This he did. I was rather relieved about that, because I’d just slipped my dagger out and was on the point of using it.

“I was about to ask you the same question. I’m a special investigator – on the King’s business.”

“Have you any proof of that?”

“None at all, on my person,” I replied. “But Captain Bergil knows me and knows that I’m here. Shall we go downstairs together and ask him? You might also wonder how I come to be in a locked room, with guards outside.”

“You might be a burglar and you might have come in the same way as I did.”

“So what does that make you?”

He seemed smitten by a sudden decision, or was it revelation? He leapt to his feet and helped me to mine. Then he casually sauntered to the corner of the room, picked up his sword and replaced it in its scabbard. He held out his hand in friendly fashion.

“Imalad son of Imrahil,” he declared. “Everybody knows me around here. But of course, you’re a stranger.”

“Now you’ve told me your name, I know you too. Or rather I know _of_ you. The third son of the Lord of Dol Amroth, in the service of the King. Or would you consider yourself a prince of the household?”

“It’s all the same. Old Aragorn insists we all work for our living when we’re old enough to.”

I was impressed by the young fellow’s casual reference to the King. When I left court I had wondered if the informality with which King Elessar had commenced his reign would long survive the cobwebs of the Tower of Guard. Now I had my answer: yes – among the younger fraternity.”

“You certainly seem to know your way around the White Tower, including the secret passages.”

Imalad laughed, like a boy with nothing to hide. “Well,” he said, “you live around here for a bit and you soon get to know them. Though I’m surprised who doesn’t. Most of the older servants don’t know about them. Or pretend they don’t. I suppose it’s the sort of thing which only young princes – or young servants – with time on their hands, get to discover.”

He looked at me with a puzzled frown. “Who did you say you were?”

“I didn’t. I’m Goswedriol son of Gandalf.”

His face lit up in recognition. “I’ve _heard_ of you!” he said. “Investigator? ...Bounty hunter, I was told. Adventurer. Don’t you travel to distant lands, fight with trolls and mûmakil and things?”

I nodded.

“Then how was it I was able to get on top of you so easily?”

“That was all a long time ago,” I replied. “And I don’t usually pick fights with healthy young striplings. Nor am I known to fight bare-handed. In fact it was a good job you got off me when you did. Didn’t you feel me getting my dagger out?”

His eyes widened with dismay. He shook his head. I was holding my dagger behind my back, but now I brought it round and slipped it into its sheath. “You’ve had a lucky escape, my boy.”

He grinned in embarrassment. I chuckled. “Well I suppose _investigator_ sounds better than _bounty hunter_. But – yes – I’ve not long returned from distant lands. I’m presently on the King’s business. It’s a secret matter and I don’t want to go talking about it. But that’s why you didn’t recognise me. Like you, I was a boy at court, but that was a long time ago.”

His face lost its happy mien and he began to frown. “What’s happened to Morfindel?”

“Morfindel has been taken ill,” I replied, watching his eyes carefully for any sign that he knew I was prevaricating. “He lies now in Houses of Healing.”

“Bullshit,” replied Imalad. “I’ve just come from the mortuary. He’s in there. It’s him.”

“I would be grateful if you’d keep _that_ to yourself,” I said sternly. “Nobody is meant to know about it. What did the Inspector of Corpses tell you?”

“Old Megastir? Nothing. Bergil’s had him arrested. But when I heard about it I stole into the mortuary and I found Morfindel there. His body is floating in one of the marble baths. Headless!”

“If it was headless, how did you know it was him?”

Imalad came up and scowled in my face. “When you’ve been as close to somebody as I have to Morfindel, you’d recognise his body anywhere. The same goes for old Megastir. But there’s no way he’s going to tell Bergil that. So Bergil will hold him under lock and key till the world ends.”

I scratched my brow. That hadn’t been my idea at all, when I told Bergil that the Inspector of Corpses was already party to our secret. Whilst he was at liberty Megastir might have made some effort to keep things quiet. With him under arrest, there was now nothing to stop anyone going into the mortuary, as Imalad had just done, and discovering the truth of the matter for themselves. Damn Bergil!

That, I reflected ruefully, was the difference between policemen and investigators. Investigators want to leave the suspect at liberty, but have him watched to see where he will lead them. Policemen want to lock him up, for fear of what he may yet do.

“Oh don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll have a word with Bergil. He’s got no business locking Megastir up like that.”

“Oh yes he has,” replied Imalad. “Megastir told me Bergil swore him to secrecy over the whole business. The very fact he’s been telling you and me gives Bergil all the excuse he needs to stick Megastir in prison.”

“Where is he now?”

“In the dungeons of the Citadel. We could go and visit him, I suppose.”

“We’ll do better than that. When we leave here, let’s you and I go and see Bergil and thump his desk. If necessary I’ll stand bail for Megastir. If it’s even more necessary, I shall go to the King and tell him that Bergil’s hampering my investigations. Bergil needs me more than I need him.”

Imalad’s face brightened visibly.

I looked him in the eye. “The way you’re talking I’d say that Megastir was a good friend of yours – and Morfindel’s. And more than just a good friend. Good enough to recognise his naked body. Even when there is no face to go by.”

With all the innocence of youth, Imalad warmly agreed. “Oh, yes! Morfindel and I often used to go round to the mortuary at the end of the day and have fun and games among the bodies. We’d get undressed and lie on the slab and pretend to dissect each other. Old Megastir is a fund of knowledge! Living or dead, there isn’t much he doesn’t know about bodies.”

“Good thing,” I observed, “that your father is far away on the other side of the Misty Mountains.”

“What’s the matter? It’s all part of a young boy’s education!”

(That’s what I mean about muck. I don’t go looking for it. It just seems to find me.)

“And anyway,” added Imalad, “wouldn’t _you_ recognise his naked body?”

“What you mean by that?”

“Half perian, half elf... he didn’t exactly look like everyone else you see around here. Fair-skinned – fair of form – I shall miss his funny little face.” Imalad’s voice tailed off wistfully.

“Were you his best friend?”

“I can only speak for myself. Morfindel had lots of friends. All sorts of people you wouldn’t imagine.” I agreed heartily.

“What were you looking for when I stopped you?”

I thought he’d be evasive about this, but he wasn’t. “A ring,” he said. “Rather a nice ring. Morfindel was into rings. This one was very precious to him, but he said that I could have it if he ever didn’t need it any more.”

“Rings? Where was he getting them from?”

“All over the place. He was buying and selling them. Well – mostly buying them. He’d buy and sell other things to raise the money.”

“What sort of other things? He wasn’t stealing from the White Tower, was he?”

Imalad’s eyes widened. “Oh no, nothing like that! It was palantíri largely, and then only second-hand ones.”

“Where did he keep his rings? On his fingers?”

“Yes, mostly. It’s the usual place. But the one I was looking for he kept in a hidden compartment in that picture frame over there. You haven’t taken it, have you?”

“No, I saw no ring. So now it’s gone? And it’s not on his finger in the mortuary?”

“No. I looked. It was a very nice ring,” he repeated.

“Describe it.”

“It was a black stone set in curly silver-work. A big square polished black bezel. I think Morfindel called it haematite. He said it wasn’t a very valuable stone, in itself. Not like adamant or ruby...”

He carefully didn’t look down at my hands, but by those words I knew he’d spotted my rings. But there – if he and Morfindel were “into rings”, then doubtless they’d catch his eye.

“It doesn’t sound a very remarkable ring.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t say that if you saw it. The silver-work is elaborate and gorgeous. Little intertwined chains, with tiny skulls peeping out from between the links. Morfindel said he knew people who’d pay a lot of money for it.”

“Where did it come from? Did Morfindel say?”

“No, he never told me. I think there is a story there, somewhere.” He looked at me and again the eyes in his frank and open face grew round. “Do you suppose he might have stolen it?”

“That’s something I shall have to find out,” I said. “If it wasn’t stolen before, it is now. That’s if it hasn’t simply dropped off his finger on the way to the mortuary.”

I racked my brains. Mentally I cast myself back to when I was initially examining the body. I remembered thinking to myself it was completely naked. If there had been so much as a ring on the finger I should not have thought that, and I’m sure I would have noticed it.

So now I had uncovered another motive for the crime. Not revenge, or maybe not altogether revenge, but also the theft of something potentially valuable. I had not the slightest doubt that Morfindel himself hadn’t come by that ring honestly.

His father had been “into rings” too – and how! Was the son, in his own small way, following in his notorious father’s footsteps? Haematite – or ironstone – is indeed of little value in itself. What was there about this black ring which made it such a desirable collector’s item? I had a feeling that if I could answer _that_ I’d be a long way towards clearing up the mystery.

 

 

 

I get to see a lot of downtown Minas Ithil. It never looks any better. Just inside the city wall, off Whitebridgegate, there is a disreputable night-club called the Headless Horseman. Until that night I’d had little enough real business there. My business was mainly to do with the cheapskate shops round the city walls, the fences, the shady dealers, the traders in forbidden commodities. The Headless Horseman was just a place to drop off – to chill out. Perhaps to repair to after clinching a deal, to celebrate over a drink.

Night falls fast in Minas Ithil. Soon after sunset, darkness floods the streets as if the drains were overflowing. I pushed open the heavy oaken door studded with nails and walked into the greasy lobby. There was nobody and nothing there except a half silvered mirror covering the whole of the opposite wall. I let the door go, which closed with a snick behind me.

“I’m a paying customer,” I announced to the hidden watcher. I received no answer, but another metallic snick told me that the door to the right was unlocked. I pushed it open and walked through into a smoky darkness lit at intervals with flickering purple fire.

Nobody looked at me as I wended my way to the bar. I ordered a flagon of the house brew and presently it arrived before me, frothing and wispy with vapour. I sipped it cautiously, dunking my moustache and nose in the yeasty foam.

A slightly built girl slid between me and the neighbouring bar stool, taking not the slightest care to avoid rubbing her body against my elbow and thigh. Without turning my head I glanced at her out of the corners of my narrowed eyes. She was poured into her black leather dress, which bulged and creased around the curves and cusps of her supple body, leaving nothing to the imagination. Silver rings were thrust through her nostrils, her eyebrows and the tops of her rounded ears. Rounded, not pointy, but I had to look to make sure.

I knew this was no daughter of men. Her head was shorn of hair and shaven, but this did nothing to dim her fey beauty. It sharpened it, like chipping an obsidian blade.

“Hail, stranger,” she murmured without looking at me. “Just passing through? Or do you plan to stay the night in gorgeous Minas Ithil?”

“No stranger am I to this pale City of the Moon.”

“Then why have we not met before?”

“Well, we’ve met now.” I held out my hand. “I’m Mr Overdale.” It was an alias I sometimes used.

“Gee,” she replied, offering hers.

“Just Gee?” I said.

“You’re wise not to part with your full name and family in this city,” she observed. “Yet now that light has fallen on your face, methinks I recognise you. Are you not the son of a certain wandering wizard of old?”

“That I am.” I studied her. “So we _have_ met before! Or perhaps you have seen me from afar. But it wasn’t in Minas Ithil, was it?”

“East of the sun, west of the moon...” she mused. “Yes, we _have_ met before, _Goss_ darling.” She had known perfectly well who I was, right from the word “go”.

“And do you come here often?” I said, allowing a little warmth to seep into my voice. She simpered, as if I’d said something silly.

“This is a fetish club and I’m the door-bitch. If that is what you’ve come for, when you’ve finished your beer I shall be pleased to escort you to a cabin, where you may lay aside your clothes and go partake of the delights within.”

I grinned. “I always try to combine pleasure with business, especially when invited to do so by one so alluring. But tell me, maiden, do you know of one Aelvsson who may be found in these parts?”

Her face grew grave. “Who sent you?”

“Nobody _sent_ me. It was the Lady Éowyn, Mistress of Ithilien no less, who bade me go seek a man of that name in Minas Ithil.”

She sighed, though whether in relief or despair I could not tell. “There is no man of that name,” she said, looking cautiously round about her, eyelids drooping. “But there is a woman. It is she to whom you speak.”

“ _Aelvsson_...” I said. “But you are no elf, or I’m a dwarf.”

“ _Aelv_ as in ‘river’, not as in ‘elf’,” she replied tartly. “I am the River Man’s daughter. Everyone has to take a surname nowadays for tax purposes. Most use their patronymic. I am no exception, though not so long ago it would have been rendered _Aelvsdottr_ , not _Aelvsson_. Such is the way men mutilate their mother tongue.”

“You speak as one of the Wise, not as a common serving wench in a low night-club, in a city trying desperately to live down its appalling reputation.”

And then it struck me. River Man’s daughter. I gazed astounded into her face.

“Goldberry!”

“ _Hush!_ ” she hissed.

“What have you done with Tom...?”

She clapped her hand over my mouth, looking round in consternation. I quickly got the point.

“Is there somewhere we can go where we can talk privately?” I murmured.

Clasping her sequinned purse to her bosom she slid off her stool and took hold of my fingertips. Threading her way round the bar she led me behind her like a child. A glance passed between her and the bar lady, a barely perceptible nod, and we were in a passageway with several doors off the side. Opening one, she hurriedly slipped inside and drew me in after her.

It was a tiny closet, lit by a single oil lamp set upon a carved side table. A king-sized bed all but filled the available space. She sat on the bed. There being nowhere else to sit, I sat down beside her.

She slipped off her high-heeled shoes and began to unbutton her leather tunic. “Help me off with this,” she said.

“Hey, just a minute...”

“This is not a game! I daren’t risk the embarrassment of someone looking in and finding us fully dressed. You’d be straightaway taken for a spy. Or a cop.”

I saw the sense in what she said and helped her off with her leather tabard. Then I began taking off my own clothes, reluctantly at first. Soon we were sitting naked beside each other. Goldberry shivered. Instinctively I put an arm round her. To get under the sheets seemed to be the most sensible thing to do.

“Goldberry!” I exclaimed. “I can’t get over it! Where’s the long yellow hair? The dress of silvery green?”

“I had the hair made into a wig. I can put it on for you if you like. And as for the dress... don’t you like me better the way I am?

I didn’t reply – I was stuck for an answer. She added “I thought it was all you men cared about.”

I held both her wrists and she offered me the palms of her hands to kiss. I smelt the perfume of starry flowers in a sea-green sward. I dared not draw her nearer, for fear of what she would encounter. But she laughed at me, like the tinkling of droplets in a mountain cascade.

“How now, brave son of Gandalf,” she said. “Do you fear a maiden’s caresses, who flinch not before the hammers of trolls and the jagged swords of orcs?”

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a joint like this?” It was not a very clever thing to say, but never had the question been asked with such passionate concern. “And where’s Tom Bombadil?”

A look of discomfiture clouded her brow and she cast down her eyes. “I had to have him put away. It was all getting too much...”

“What d’you mean?”

“He was growing far too difficult. You can’t imagine it. Water lilies, water lilies everywhere. You’d get out of bed in the morning and put your foot – slop! – right in a bucket of the bloody things.”

“You don’t mean to say you’ve had old Tom put in a home...?”

“No... yes... it’s a very nice home. Honest!”

She turned over and presented her back to me. I thought she was about to cry. “I had to do something. It was all getting on top of me.”

I slid my arms round her waist, elbows on her hips, hand... where hands naturally fall. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing! You always seemed so happy together!”

“Well, I suppose I managed to put on a smiling face for the benefit of visitors. But it was hard living with that silly old man, day-in, day-out, and no one else to talk to. People were always just passing through.”

“I can’t imagine how you could do that to poor old Tom! He was so very much in love with you.”

“Yes, I know. He was always doing this and that for me. He’d never leave me alone. He’d trail round the house after me. I wanted to run away, over the hills and down the dales, but I knew he just run after me and catch me up and tear off my silvery green dress and I’d have to put up with yet another shagging in the long grass. It was all fun to start with, but you can’t imagine how tedious it became in the end. Over the years one’s ideas change...”

“So now you’re the door-bitch in a shady night-club.”

“Yes... well... I always yearned for the city lights. Any city.”

“But Minas Ithil, of all places!”

“Where d’you think I _should_ have gone? That place across the river? Here, nobody looks down their noses at you. Nobody is up to very much, they don’t have airs and graces. And they don’t _ask questions_. I’ve got a gorgeous girl friend and we rent a nice room overlooking the ruins of the old tower. We do just what we please and no one bothers us.”

“Where is Tom now?”

“I should have thought My Lady Éowyn could have told you that. As well as the Houses of Healing in MT, she and Lord Faramir run a lucrative little nursing home right next to their country seat at Henneth Annûn, you know – the old wartime bunker. It’s not that far from here. Just up the road. I take the stagecoach which goes to Udûn at weekends and pop in for half an hour or so. Now and again. Well... twice a year at least.”

“I suppose it _is_ out in nice countryside. I was afraid you’d got him tucked away somewhere here in the city.”

“Oh no! Nothing like that. He wouldn’t last very long in the sharku-house here, in ravishing Dûshgoi. He’s a bit of a handful though for the staff at Henneth Annûn, but they’re all very kind. They don’t have many orcs. And those they do have are mainly in the kitchen.”

By now she’d turned to face me again and put her arms around my neck. We’d moved close together without thinking. “You feel nice,” she said, wriggling her tummy. “Fancy a bit of rumpy-pumpy before they look in and tell us our time’s up?” She started kissing me, searching deep with her tongue.

I pulled my mouth away. “First tell me what you know about Morfindel son of Gollum.”

“That creep!” She let go of my neck and turned over again with a thump.

I snuggled up until we were like two spoons in a drawer. “Does he come in here?” I murmured, nibbling the rings in her ear.

“Look, shut up about the King’s fancy boy, unless you want me to go all frigid on you.”

“I told you, I wanted to _talk_!”

She wriggled free of my arms and sat bolt upright. Just at that moment the door eased open a crack and the bar-lady said “time’s up!”

“We’ll be out of here in two flicks of a lamb’s tail,” spat Goldberry.

“No, give us another hour, will you?” I called out. “Take the money from my breeches pocket there.” I hauled Goldberry back under the covers and kissed her mouth hard. As the bar-lady shut the door, grumbling away to herself, Goldberry wriggled her head free to gasp for breath. Afraid she was about to shout I started biting her all over, just to distract her. She whimpered and thrashed about like a branded piglet.

For fifty minutes we completely forgot what we came in to do.

“All right, whadd’ya want to know?” said Goldberry at last with a forced sigh. She unpeeled herself from me like the skin from a ripe peach, sat up in bed and scowled down at me.

“You’re beautiful...” I whispered, gazing up through her cleavage at the artery in her silky neck, throbbing with a slight lag behind her heart going dub-thump beside my ear. I was a bit disappointed she hadn’t said “wow!” like they mostly do.

“Sod you! Get on with your interrogation and let’s get it over with.”

 

 

 

What Goldberry had to tell me wrenched my heart. Morfindel was an occasional customer of the Headless Horseman. He used to come in with his friends. They came from all walks of life, from the highest to the lowest. Just which was which was hard to tell at times. Like the time a dozen of them hung her up by the wrists... let’s not go into details.

“Getting in bed with a man, like this, is one thing,” she said. “But a good girl always calls the shots. Anything you don’t want to do, you set the price high, or you don’t quote at all.”

She took a deep breath. “That wasn’t in the contract.”

“Goldberry!” I choked. “You must really, really hate him!”

“Oh, he paid me well for it. He can afford to. He reckons he can afford everything in the Kingdom. And everybody. But if you gave me his liver on a plate – that wouldn’t make up for it!”  



	5. A Little Drink with Commissary Grishnakh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

My horse Bess hates going to Udûn. I hate the stables I have to put her in. The upshot is that I go there by stagecoach whenever I have to.

Emerging from the forest in the northernmost tip of Ithilien, the road goes over a rise and gives you a glorious view of the Black Gate. It doesn’t look any better now than it did in Frodo’s day, but at least it’s been demilitarised. You descend a long gentle incline until you meet the road to Osgiliath as it emerges between the ruined Towers of the Teeth. It’s a busy thoroughfare: Udûn is the industrial heartland of the Kingdom. Horses, laden wains and dwarves puffing along with knobbly stangs and enormous backpacks are always to be seen pouring in and out of the Morannon.

The first stop the stagecoach makes is in the courtyard of the South Tower. There I got off. The iron gate and the rampart have long since been demolished. Nowadays a sprawl of mean housing is creeping slowly along the road to Osgiliath. I picked my way over the rubbish and called out to the gatekeeper in the guardroom. I showed the man the King’s seal and demanded to see Grishnakh son of Grishnakh.

“Nobody sees Grishnakh without an appointment.”

With infinite weariness I droned, “He’s expecting me.”

I’m not sure precisely how they communicate, but the gate-keeper got his instructions back pretty quick. “Commissary Grishnakh is coming to collect you himself in a quarter of an hour. You’re to wait here.”

“That’s fine by me,” I said. “Have you any refreshment for a weary traveller?” I knew what the answer would be, but I only said it to annoy him.

“You might try the street corner down there. There’s generally a seller of root beer standing around, taking the afternoon air.”

Clearly my credit was a little higher than the last time I’d seen Grishnakh. I fingered Glamdring beneath my cloak and went off in search of the beer seller. I came back with some beer in a disposable earthenware mug, which I suppose I was expected to smash on the hardcore of the courtyard when I’d finished. As I was enjoying a pipeful of weed, Grishnakh appeared and silently beckoned me to follow him.

We mounted the stairs of an ugly square yellow-brick building in the shadow of the ruined tower. In his office Grishnakh motioned to me to sit down in a greasy looking chair that creaked. The thing I like about visiting Grishnakh rather than Bergil is that the former never minds me smoking in his office.

We exchanged courtesies, as much as you do with an orc. Grishnakh picked his nose. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“King’s business. The King, by the way, sends his regards.”

“Very kind of him I’m sure,” drawled Grishnakh. “What does he want?”

“Information, as ever. I’m investigating the affairs of a certain Morfindel son of Gollum. I haven’t the slightest doubt you’ve heard of him...”

“I’ve been hearing some pretty strange things about him lately,” commented Grishnakh. “Has he fallen from grace?”

I was about to say: why do you ask that? – when I thought better of it. “He’s certainly fallen,” I said, “but whether from grace I’m not inclined to say.”

“Indeed? Then what are you doing here? The only person who’s in the habit of wandering in here on the King’s business is Pretty Boy himself. Why didn’t he come in person this time?”

I feigned surprise. “Haven’t you heard? I’m surprised if Bergil’s office hasn’t informed you...”

“Since when has the Tower of Guard kept the Mandate informed about anything?”

I ignored that. “Master Morfindel has had a nasty fall and is presently recovering in the Houses of Healing.”

“What does he want to go there for? Send him here – to Udûn. Doesn’t he trust orc medicine any more?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure he has every respect for orc medicine.” As indeed I had. Orc medicine is nasty, invasive, painful, humiliating and, above all, totally effective. A thought struck me. “Has he ever come to Udûn for an orc-cure before?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea! But we’re always kidding him to try. If he can screw himself to the pitch of taking his clothes off in front of an orc doctor, then I’m sure our boys know a trick or two to ring his bell.”

“Thank you,” I said evenly. “I shall pass on that information.”

Grishnakh laughed – a strangely melodious sound, like broken glass being trampled on. I thought to myself: from the way he’s talking, he doesn’t seem to have got wind yet of Morfindel’s death. But you can never tell with these GUB people.

I leaned back in the creaky chair and lit my pipe. Taking out my pouch of pipe-weed I offered Grishnakh some. To my surprise he produced an enormous curly monstrosity and smiled a big smile, revealing crooked yellow teeth. Presently the office was full of smoke and Grishnakh was chattering in a way which showed he was inclined to be a little more co-operative than he had been with me in the past.

“You know,” I said, “one of the things Captain Bergil always grouses about is how the sneak thieves do their jobs in Osgiliath and then hotfoot it into the wilds of Udûn.”

“Well, it goes both ways. How about the people who pull off enormous heists in Doom City and then retire out to the Pelennor on their ill-gotten gains, or even as far away as Isengard?”

I peered cautiously through the smoke from my pipe. “Such as...?”

“Grimwald Uruksson, for instance.”

Not a name I could easily forget. “What’s he up to now?”

“What’s he _not_ up to! He’s got Doom City well and truly stitched up. Hardly a crime takes place there from which he doesn’t get a cut, in some form or other. Right now he’s cornering the used palantír market. In conjunction with your friend Morfindel, I might add.”

I pretended to be shocked. “Is that just a conjecture? Or do you have proof?”

“What d’you need to convince you? They consort together, money changes hands and Morfindel has been taking a close and unhealthy interest in palantíri too.”

“Why all this big interest in palantíri? They’re a commodity nowadays.”

“Oh, yes. The kids play fantasy games on them. No parents dare to be accused of depriving their child. They’re meant to be for homework, but precious little homework ever gets done on them.”

I knew all about palantíri. A lost technology during the Third Age, they’d recently opened a factory in Dale to mass-produce the things.

“So what’s the big deal? You can get a palantír for a few golden crowns. There’s not much second-hand value in them, I imagine.”

Grishnakh pointed the end of his curly monstrosity at me. “That’s just where you’re wrong! All new palantíri have a serial number, but the old ones don’t. Those fetch an enormous price at auctions. And change hands privately for even more!”

“That’s absurd. How many palantíri are we talking about? ‘Seven Stars, and Seven Stones, and One White Tree’,” I quoted.

“I know all that! So let’s just count them up, shall we? There’s the Orthanc stone, now in the possession of the King. There’s another stone nestling in the withered claws of Denethor, last of the Stewards of Gondor. But that one’s not worth very much, I’d guess. Not unless you fancy looking at flames all the time. That leaves five.”

“Which had all fallen into the hands of the Dark Lord if I remember. And all destroyed in the fall of Barad-Dûr.”

“Wrong again!” said Grishnakh. “ _One_ was destroyed, at most. The one the Dark Lord was supposed to have been holding when Barad-Dûr fell down. Though there’s a story that someone escaped with the thing in the nick of time. It’s quite likely to be the one that’s found its way into the possession of Grimwald Uruksson . GUB has made a study of the whereabouts of these things. Because of their enormous value, they’re all crimes just waiting to happen. And when they get stolen, where are they all going to get fenced? Right here – in the Royal Mandate of East Ithilien!”

Grishnakh counted on his knobbly yellow fingers. “There was one in Minas Ithil and another found its way here to the Black Gate – my father told me that. That leaves two: whereabouts unknown. Still in circulation maybe, or in various private collections more likely. A certain Guthmud son of Gothmog, is known to be looking for one. And offering a staggeringly high price. Though it’s suspected he already owns one – the Ithil Stone.”

“Almost worth trying to erase the serial number from a new stone,” I remarked. Grishnakh made a scornful noise.

“It’s been tried. People do it all the time. But there’s no mistaking one of the classic stones. They don’t communicate with the new ones – and the content of what you see in them is something the new stones can’t even begin to replicate, even in your wildest, most diseased fantasies. They’re not the sort of thing one should idly go looking into – though you could say that of the new stones too. With a new stone you’ve no idea who you’re communicating with. It could be a masher, a rank villain, or the head of some vice ring. I certainly wouldn’t let _my_ child go playing with one. Still, there is no accounting for what some collectors find it amusing to collect.”

“Do you suppose it’s something more than the glamour of owning one of these classic stones?”

“Oh I’m sure of it. All the old ones – they get used for serious purposes, even if it’s just trying to delve into ancient history. There are folk going around who’ll pay a sackful of gold crowns just for the privilege of looking into one of them for half-an-hour. So you can see how much a classic palantír might be worth.”

“What was Morfindel’s interest in all this?”

Grishnakh looked at me slyly. “Well... that’s his business, isn’t it?”

“It’s the King’s business now,” I replied. “My business. It’s a criminal investigation I’m engaged in.”

Grishnakh rounded his fat cracked lips into a sort of “O”. “So that’s the lie of the land is it? Have you got Morfindel put away somewhere safe, then?”

“It hasn’t come to that. But take my word for it – he’s out of circulation, and will remain so.”

Grishnakh and I stayed eyeball to eyeball for what seemed like an age. “If only I could believe that,” he breathed at last.

“Afraid of it getting back to him and him getting back at you?”

Grishnakh’s lips curled into a smile and he nodded slowly. “Such things have been known to happen...”

All the while I’d been wondering how much to tell him. He seemed to be genuinely unaware of the true state of affairs, to the credit of Bergil’s cover-up, which meant the same was true for the whole of the Mandate. Quite an achievement for the Tower of Guard, I grudgingly had to admit. But I’d come prepared for such an eventuality and I badly needed to pick the brains of the head of GUB.

“Well it so happens I’ve brought you a little present.” I reached back into my bulging backpack as it sat on the floor behind my chair. I pulled forth a sizeable glass jar, filled with absolute-strength spirit-of-wine. And something else. With a clunk I set it down on Grishnakh’s desk and turned it round to face him. Then I settled back to enjoy his expression.

“There. You can tell him yourself.”

Grishnakh’s eyes grew round, then his lips began parting in an enormous grin. I’d gauged it right. It’s hard for a man to conceal his body language – and even more so for an orc. A gob-smacked face doesn’t lie. A thousand orc-oaths couldn’t have counted more with me than the sight of Grishnakh’s plug-ugly fizzog that day. It told me that he hadn’t for one moment suspected the truth, that he wasn’t in the pocket of Morfindel son of Gollum, and that I’d just made an ally, if not exactly a friend, for life.

“By the bristles of Morgoth! How did this come about? Who did the deed?”

“Oh, the head? I cut it off myself.”

Grishnakh folded his fingers and looked at me with something approaching respect.

“But I have to admit he’d been dead some little while when I did it. So – who actually did the deed, as you said, remains a mystery. And that’s the real purpose of my investigation. He was very dear to the King...”

“You can say that again! But not very dear to GUB. He had a lot of good friends in Udûn and Doom City. Guthmud son of Gothmog and Grimwald Uruksson, to name but two.”

Grishnakh gave a single bark of mirth, like a glass of beer dropping on a tiled floor. “Well... that’s taken a load off my mind. But not half the load it’s taken off _his_!” He began to laugh his slow vitreous laugh at his own little joke. “A present, did you say?”

“Yes. I thought it would look nice on your desk. But I have a little request to make...”

Grishnakh leered at me. “Go on then, son of Gandalf.”

“I’d be most grateful if you kept it well hidden for now. Just until this little business is sorted out. Together of course with the tidings of its owner’s death. It’s proving very useful to us in our investigations that nobody knows yet (officially) that Morfindel has gone to the Halls of Silence.”

Grishnakh rubbed his bony hands until the knuckles cracked. “Delighted to oblige,” he said. “But that can’t be all you’re hoping to get from me. ‘I dread the tarks when they come bearing gifts’ – as they say.”

“Then let me go back to my previous question. What was Morfindel’s interest in the second-hand palantír business?”

“He was operating hand-in-glove with Grimwald and Guthmud. I’m sorry these two names keep turning up again and again. We’ve got lots of juicy criminals to offer you in East Ithilien, but just today my imagination seems to have deserted me.”

“Tell me more. It’s not the only racket Morfindel was involved in, as far as I can discover. It’s just one more to add to the list. But maybe there’s a pattern to detect in it all.”

“Yes, well... I know you don’t like drinking in orc-bars, but be my guest tonight... and I’d like to share some thoughts with you on that little topic.”

“I’ve no objection to orc-bars,” I said. “I’ve been in far, far worse. The beer’s generally pretty good. It’s the food I can’t stand. No one will ever tell me what sort of animal the meat comes from.”

Grishnakh threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Can I believe my ears? This from the man who’s just brought me a pickled head! – I say...” An idea glimmered in his bulbous eyes. “What if I send out for two wine glasses and we pour out a little of the juice in this jar and drink a toast to absent friends?”

I couldn’t suppress a shudder. “Well, maybe if we come back here when we’re both thoroughly tanked up...”

“That’s the stuff!” he said.

 

 

 

I learned a load of orc-lore from Grishnakh that night, though I don’t remember much ambient detail. But one thing fascinated me. It’s an orc-legend that if two of the palantíri are touched together, you can bring back into a sort of fleeting existence the very thing they were both viewing at any given moment. And if, say, the palantír of Minas Morgul, as was employed by the High Nazgûl himself to communicate with his master, were to be touched against one that had been held by Sauron himself, when the One Ring was yet on his finger, the One would be brought back into a quasi-existence. Not enough for it to materialise, but sufficient to restore the power of the Rings which it ruled.

Sufficient to restore the power of the Three! And the Seven, though they are thought to have all been lost in the destruction of Barad-Dûr. And the Nine, though they are known to have perished in the fire of Orodruin, as the Nazgûl swooped to prevent Frodo Ninefingers from hurling the One Ring into the Cracks of Doom.

But in particular, for as long as the palantíri remained in contact, the wearer of one of the classic rings of Power would be rendered invisible to mortal eyes.  



	6. The Steward's Dark Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

“Is your Master at home?”

I had ridden into the courtyard of Ithil Hall and hitched Bess to the hitching pole. An elderly servant had answered the door, a man of Gondor whom I took to be an old soldier, no doubt one of Faramir’s trusty rangers of old. Bowing deferentially but uttering not a word he ushered me in and closed the door. I had the feeling I was expected, although I’d sent no word on ahead. Old habits die hard. Even in these days of peace doubtless Faramir still kept watch on the boundaries of his country seat and on the roads leading south to Minas Ithil and north to Udûn.

We mounted wide wooden stairs, past walls hung with banners depicting scenes of the hunt, not to mention echoes of Faramir’s more adventurous days. The servant opened the door of the library and announced me correctly, although I’d never met the fellow before and he had not asked my name.

Faramir was sitting at his writing desk, clad in a glistening green cloak with velvet reveres. He let the scroll he was reading snap together in a double roll and rose to his feet.

“My dear Goss! How splendid to see you again!” He grasped my elbows and looked me up and down. “My! But how you’ve grown!” We laughed at that – I had fond memories of Faramir when I was a boy at court. He was one of my favourite uncles and I used to love playing in the orchards and in the autumn leaves behind the hothouses of Ithil Hall.

He let go my arms and gave me a quick pat on the shoulder. “You’re looking more and more like your father – but I’m sure everyone tells you that.”

“You’re looking in good health yourself, my lord,” I said deferentially. Faramir huffed. “Just call me Faramir,” he said, “like you used to. You’d be a lord yourself if you had stayed at court.”

To the servant, still standing at the door, he gave orders to bring afternoon tea to the library. “Make it something substantial, Sternhelm. I’m sure the son of Gandalf is feeling hungry after his ride down from Udûn. And I’m feeling rather peckish myself.”

Since the afternoon was warm, Faramir flung open the double doors leading onto the balcony and brought up two chairs. We sat and gazed out over his lovely garden and my eyes strayed over the tops of pine and maple to the sunny hillside beyond.

“Éowyn tells me she saw you in Minas Tirith the other day.”

“Yes – in stressful circumstances. I wish it had been otherwise. But she very kindly gave me some of her precious time. Did she tell you what it was about?”

Faramir’s eyes were frank and open. “No... unusual for her. She doesn’t usually withhold confidences from me. But this time all she would say was that I’d have to ask you myself, since she was sure you were going to turn up here sooner or later.” He got up to take a deep breath at the window. “I was delighted to hear it, as it happens. I’ve got some new plants growing in the garden. I wanted to ask you about them – they’re from the distant south and I thought you might have come across them in your travels. But here’s me talking as if you have all the time in the world... Éowyn says you’re a busy man these days.”

“King’s business, I’m afraid. But nothing so pressing that I can’t enjoy the countryside of Ithilien for a day. I have to think about some of the things I’ve seen and heard.”

Two servants arrived with tea, a man and a maid, and without a word they swiftly set up the repast on five small tables around us. Faramir was as good as his word. The meal was substantial – one could almost have said the hobbit influence was gaining ground in Ithilien these days. Legs of chicken, game pie, fresh baked bread in simple rolls marked with a cross on top, fresh root vegetables cut into strips, pickles and relishes – nothing hot, but only what could be drawn from a well stocked pantry in the twinkling of an eye.

“They tell me you are much-travelled man.”

“Yes...” I sighed. “I came back to Osgiliath hoping for a rest, but it has been anything but restful recently. Most of my leisure hours I’ve been spending with Legolas and Gimli.”

“Ah yes, we last saw the pair of them here at Yule. They seem to be keeping in good spirits. Legolas’s people have done some wonderful things here in Ithilien. Cleared up all the orc mess. It’s a matter of pride among the wood elves that the place is growing to be as beautiful as Lórien – or should I say, as Lórien was. And hasn’t Gimli done marvels with the Great Gate of Minas Tirith? The inhabitants of Udûn are quite jealous...”

“The cheeky devils! You don’t mean to tell me...?”

“Yes,” laughed Faramir. “They want a gate just like it, in a rampart across the Morannon once more. And they’re threatening to build a gate of iron if we don’t give them a mithril one. Or at least with a bit of mithril on it, here and there. Well – you can imagine what the dwarves say about that!”

“Gimli hasn’t mentioned anything about that to me. I’ll have to get him going about it, next time we go out for a drink together. Talking about that, I went out for a drink with the head of GUB last night.”

“Commissary Grishnakh?” Faramir laughed. “A capital fellow, there. A rare specimen – a good orc. And when you recall what a fiend his father was...!”

“Have you met Grishnakh, then?”

“Yes. He actually accepts invitations. Éowyn and I hand out these things at Yule to all the Mandate people we feel we have to. Just to be polite. Not really expecting them to be taken up. But Grishnakh came along. He was the life and soul of the party too.”

“He’ll accept anything you offer him. He’ll smoke all your pipe-weed, if you let him.”

“Ha-ha! And you ought to see the inroads he makes on your wine cellar too! It doesn’t alter him, though.”

“No. He’s always just the same.”

Over his chicken leg, Faramir gave me a frank stare. “Talking of that, I gather you’ve been to see Tom.”

“Yes. Isn’t that a funny business. What d’you make of it?”

Faramir sucked the last of the meat off the bone before replying. “I don’t know what to think. Personally I’m saddened. I’ve had quite a few chats with old Tom since he’d been here with us. He’s very resentful about the way he’s been treated, as you can imagine. What did he say to you?”

“Just that. But I don’t think he’s as senile as he cares to make out.”

We both avoided mentioning Goldberry by name and I said nothing of my encounter with her in Minas Ithil. Whether Faramir was expecting me to talk about her I don’t know. Since it was Éowyn who had put me on to her, perhaps he might have been!

After tea had been cleared away Faramir invited me for a stroll in the garden. He was right about his new plants – they were aloes of some sort. I was of the opinion they wouldn’t take in this northern clime unless we had a really good summer that year. Which however we both agreed was an even chance.

Faramir straightened up from his plants. “I take it you’re going to stay for supper? An excellent haunch of venison is all ready for tonight and if Éowyn is not going to come home today or tomorrow I’m going to have to eat it all myself.”

I said I’d be delighted to stay. Quite apart from the fact that I’m very partial to venison, there were one or two things which Faramir might know the answers to.

“What is more, if you are in no hurry to rush off early tomorrow, how about us riding out together for a morning’s hunting?”

The idea pleased me immensely. I needed time to think and I saw no point in going back home to Osgiliath just yet. And Bergil had been right – the less I saw of Minas Tirith for the present the better.

 

 

 

It was a stupendous dinner that Faramir gave me. Pouring ourselves each a large goblet of the sweet dark wine bottled on Faramir’s own estates in South Ithilien, we retired to the library once more. There Faramir produced some of the choicest pipe-weed which he kept for special visitors. It was dark now and outside the mullioned window the waxing moon glinted off leaves of maple and laurel in the garden, whilst beyond the hedge thick black forest blanketed the hillsides.

I had of course needed to tell Éowyn about Morfindel’s murder and I was curious to know whether the news had got back to Faramir. Or indeed whether he would have admitted it to me if it had.

“Do you see much of Morfindel son of Gollum these days?”

“Rather less than I might possibly do,” answered Faramir, puffing contentedly on his pipe and thus far giving the distinct impression that he had been left in ignorance. So Éowyn had been as good as her word. “Indeed the last time he was here I had occasion to throw him out of the house.”

“Dear me! Was he _that_ objectionable?”

“ _That_ I could have tolerated. Or would have done so, for the King’s sake. But the young rascal began to talk in a most disloyal way! Of what was to become of the Realm when the King joined his ancestors. As you well know, the Queen has not yet presented the King with an heir, a matter which had been exercising the mind of Morfindel rather more than I felt comfortable with. I told him I wanted to hear no more of such talk, but persist he would. I received the impression that he would have liked to fill the position of Crown Prince himself. Now if anything should happen to Aragorn – may the stars forbid it! – then the succession would pass first to me, as Steward of Gondor, and after that to Prince Imrahil. It seemed that in the most roundabout way he was trying to gauge which way I would tend to lean, were he to rule instead.”

“Didn’t you disabuse him of that likelihood?”

“Don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t proposing to rule as Aragorn’s adopted son (although at one time there was even talk of _that_ at court!) but as regent for a child which Queen Arwen might bear. Whose child? – that was the obvious question. But he refused to be drawn. He would only say that if it were the son of the Queen then it would of course be accepted as the King’s offspring by all loyal subjects.”

I leaned forward with a frown. “I can see why you found such talk so distasteful,” I said. “But weren’t you taking a risk, making an enemy of one so close to the King?”

“Enemies are not hard to make at court. As you know full well. The only thing I would regret is to incur the enmity of a man I respected.” He laid careful stress on the last word.

I spoke lightly as though I were changing the subject, though really I was not.

“Tell me something. In my younger day, you were commonly held to be a lore-master, of no mean attainment. Particularly in ring-lore.” Smilingly, Faramir demurred, but only out of modesty, not conviction. “Now Morfindel,” I continued, “has been developing an enormous interest in rings of late. What is your opinion of that?”

Some of the mirth went out of Faramir’s smile. “Really, Goss, it comes to the point where you must declare yourself. For all I know you might be a friend of Morfindel. An agent of his. Though Éowyn urges me to trust you...”

“The Lady Éowyn is indeed a remarkable person, my lord Faramir.”

He nodded. “Just what I say myself – and it is pleasing to find people who agree with me.” But he was obviously puzzled by what I had said. I hastened to make myself clear.

“She conceals even from her own husband something which I told her in confidence. And that was less out of regard for me, whom she considers a young tearaway at best – than out of respect for the honour of her own word.”

I could see that Faramir was really puzzled by now. Being an artful showman I was relishing the effect my words were having. And about to have.

“You see, as Lady Éowyn could easily have told you, Morfindel is dead. Murdered.”

The pipe dropped from Faramir’s mouth. He slapped his knees and actually rose to his feet. I smiled and held up my palms. When he had settled down again in sufficient comfort I continued.

“In order to keep the matter secret, at the King’s special behest, it was necessary to embroil her in a shameful subterfuge. The story for public consumption is that Morfindel lies confined in the Houses of Healing. But it was a dummy I caused to be admitted. In reality Morfindel lies at this moment in the mortuary close by Rath Dínen.”

Faramir’s voice was hoarse. “How did he die?”

“Horribly, my lord. I would rather not go into it. He died in his own bedroom, at the hands of someone unknown.”

“When?”

“At some time in the evening of Thursday the 27th of April. His body was discovered by Captain Bergil at the midnight hour.”

“Indeed! What was Captain Bergil doing in Morfindel’s bedroom at the midnight hour? It’s the sort of question we contrive not to ask at court these days.”

“Between you and me I wonder about it myself. But Bergil seems not at all ashamed to declare it and so I’m inclined to accept that his visit was purely a matter of business. He himself maintains that it was business and entirely his own. Which of course he has a perfect right to do, and indeed a duty.”

Faramir pursed his lips for a moment, but soon his features made it clear that he saw no reason to suspect Bergil of anything worse than a habitual lack of consideration.

“He is a man who retires to bed late and gets up early. Such men are often noted for their absence of imagination. He thinks that because he is up and about, everyone else should be too.”

To that I assented heartily. I told Faramir how the Rangers of the North had got me out of bed to answer Bergil’s summons by break of day. He laughed long and heartily at that.

“I can well imagine how you had good cause to thank him for _that_! Especially had you been quaffing ale in Osgiliath with Legolas and Gimli the night before!” (As indeed I had!)

Faramir’s face grew grave again and he shook his head to himself slowly. “But – dead! Morfindel son of Gollum! Long will it be before the rumour of this matter dies down. How is the King taking it?”

I saw the love in his eyes. Faramir, last of the hereditary Stewards of Gondor, loyal to his lord and master to the end. “He grieves, my Lord,” I said. “And he has vowed vengeance on the murderer. It will be Death at the Stake...”

“About that he has no choice!” said Faramir gruffly. Then he lowered his chin into his hand. “Yet when you stop to think just who it might be...” He puffed out his chest. “It might even be me! Why, if animosity alone were the touchstone of guilt...”

He paused and his eyes phrased a silent question. I smiled and shook my head. “I have already formed my opinion about that. If I really thought it was you, Lord Faramir, or your well-regarded wife, I wouldn’t be talking to you now like this.”

Faramir picked his pipe up and lit it once more. “No, I imagine not.” He blew out a cloud of smoke. “Can you blow smoke rings, like your father?”

“Nobody can blow smoke rings like my father,” I said. “But please – don’t let me stop you. I won’t pour scorn upon your efforts.”

“And, in talking to me, is this the King’s business you’re on now? There are many people you will have to talk to. I’m relieved you don’t think it was I who did it. But I’m sure you feel there is much I can tell you all the same.”

“There’s much I have heard, from people at court with much to say. But it is the quality of the words, not the quantity, that counts with me,” I replied and we both laughed. Quietly he murmured, “And what choice words should I let fall?”

We had come to the point, I knew it. “Rings,” I breathed. “What have you to say about Morfindel’s interest in rings?”

It was only then that he appeared to notice my elf-rings. “A lore-master, did you call me? Versed in the lore of rings? Well, I’d say this. Morfindel would have been very interested in the rings you wear on your own hands.”

We exchanged a knowing smile. “I’m quite sure he would,” I said. “But do you think he would have noticed them?”

“That’s a good question. Let me ask you one in return. Do you think that the rings hide themselves? Do they ever hide _you_?”

“In answer to the first, they are always there when I look at them, and they are always very obvious to me. But as for the second question, I must answer – how would I know?”

“Well, right at this moment, I can see you clearly. But that might be because you _choose_ to be seen by me. Were you possessed of a lesser intellect, the rings might serve merely to make you invisible, whether you willed it or no.”

“Do the rings still have the power to do that? Even after the unmaking of the Ruling Ring?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. Not even your father knew the answer to that. Not even your...” Faramir checked himself. He gazed at me like a child who had just been caught out saying something forbidden. But I smiled in reassurance. “Your father... and your mother,” he continued, “might have said that although they may have lost their bodily power, there is still some power they exert over the mind. Over the imagination. I see you – yes – but I do not see where you’re coming from, nor where you are going to. Not unless it’s your own good pleasure to reveal it to me. Such can rarely be said of lesser men.”

He paused to knock the ash out of his pipe and to fill it afresh. Silently he offered the jar of rich pipe-weed smelling to me of cherry and almonds. I took it and filled my pipe, then we lit up and stared at each other through curls of blue smoke.

Presently Faramir spoke again. “Such could not be said of the son of Gollum. For a thief and a cheat and a liar he was as crystal clear as a mountain stream. In view of all that, it was amazing the success he had. Though perhaps only over weaker minds. A magic ring would have made him totally transparent.”

I puffed thoughtfully upon my pipe. “That’s a remarkably profound statement,” I said. “And was it magic rings – rings of Power, he was on the lookout for?”

“Oh, definitely.”

I started forward in my seat. “How come? There must be few enough rings of that nature to be had. How can you speak with such assurance?”

“Why, you yourself called me a lore-master, well versed in ring-lore. Well then, hear what I have to say. Recite the Lay of the Rings...”

I began:

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky, ...

“And what has become of the Three?”

I carefully made no answer. He didn’t need me to. It was a rhetorical question. “One of the Three is almost certainly on the hand of Queen Arwen. I have never seen it there, but nor would I, unless she herself were to reveal it to me.”

I nodded, recalling my meeting with her.

“And as of tonight I know the whereabouts of the other two.”

I made my face into stone, but he kept his eyes cast downwards. “Please carry on reciting,” he said.

Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone, ...

“Alas, we don’t know what became of the Seven. All of them were said to have fallen into the hands of the Dark Lord and were in all likelihood destroyed in the wreck of Barad-Dûr. But we don’t know. They may be in circulation. The dwarves almost certainly would hunt them down, buy then back, and never let them out of their possession again. But what goes on in the Mandate is something I can’t vouch for. Pray continue...”

Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, ...  
One for ...

“Never mind about the One, we know what happened to that.”

“And we know what happened to the Nine. They too perished in the fire of Mount Doom when the One was destroyed.”

Faramir slowly raised his eyes to mine in a burning stare. His voice was so quiet I nearly didn’t catch what he said.

“ _All_ nine?”

I breathed in sharply and my hand went up to grasp my beard. “By Elbereth! I was forgetting! And in the company of you, of all people! How thoughtless of me!”

Faramir shut his eyes and pursed his lips in a wry smile. “No – it’s very easy to forget. Everybody forgets. My wife and I don’t want it remembered particularly. In fact, that may be the heart of the trouble...”

In a voice low and trembling I asked, “What... really happened, that day?”

“What really happened? Oh, for that you need to ask a certain hobbit called Meriadoc Brandybuck. The Lady Éowyn, bless her, was lying senseless at the time. Merry remembers nothing of it either. But Prince Imrahil, who came upon her lying there, was certain that he saw Merry pick the thing up as he stooped to retrieve his pack.”

“Merry!” I gasped.

“Yes, Merry. But of this you can be quite sure. _Somebody_ would have picked it up. We can only be grateful that it didn’t fall into lesser hands.”

“What did Merry do with it?”

“Can you imagine? Three years later, when we were enjoying the fruits of peace, a fine young knight of the Mark, albeit a diminutive one, came riding out to us here in Ithilien. He begged to speak to me in private and as you can imagine I was mighty glad to see him. But it wasn’t a social call he was intending, although in later years he was to make many of those, as one of our most welcome guests. But on that occasion there was a stark urgency in his face. He had a gift for me. Or rather for the Lady Éowyn, but he thought it were better coming from me.”

Faramir topped up his pipe before he would continue. This time I refused the jar.

“It was a trophy of battle. Black forgetfulness had been upon him, he said, and for nigh on two years he had given no heed to it. It was only in reminiscence with King Éomer that it had come to mind again.

“As you can imagine I felt greatly honoured by the trouble Merry had taken to bring that trophy to me and I felt bound to show nothing but gratitude, to his face. But it was a gift I was utterly horrified to receive! Once upon a time... in another age...” (and here Faramir’s voice grew faint) “...Frodo himself came to Henneth Annûn, as you probably know, and for one night he was my guest, a brief respite from his cruel journey. I could have had the One Ring for the taking! But as I told him then, had I come across the thing lying in the street – I would have passed it by.”

In the light of the log fire, Faramir’s face grew haggard as his thoughts sank back into the shadows of fifty years ago.

“Can you imagine how I felt, Goss? Having resisted that terrible trial over Frodo and the One Ring, and been touched myself by the Black Breath, another hobbit comes along and places into my hand another ring of Power – the last of the Nine!”

A horrid fascination overcame me. I leaned forward. “What was it like – to hold?”

“Do you mean – did it tingle, did it feel tainted by the Black Breath? Strange to say, no. At least you wouldn’t say so in the cold light of day. Not to start with. When the One was destroyed, the rings lost all their power. Or nearly all. It was just a ring. Just a piece of jewellery, albeit antique and venerable to the last degree. The rings, after all, were once benign. Even when they fell under the Shadow they didn’t change their shape. It was, to my eyes, exactly as it must have looked to the High King of Angmar, when it was first placed on his finger.”

“What did you do with it?”

“What _could_ I do with it? It had been presented to me by a splendid young hero I didn’t want to offend, as a gift for my darling wife. I did indeed present it to her – and touched she was to receive it! She wore it proudly on several social occasions. But no-one can face down such terrible memories. Whether it was a vestige of the Black Breath, or just a shadow of its memory in the mind, Éowyn took to wearing it less and less, and finally put it away altogether.

“To escape the feeling of dread that it started to emanate, I had a copy made – and it is this she wears to royal functions, whenever there’s a need to do so. Afterwards she always gives it back into my safekeeping. Whenever she needs it for such occasions (not for a long time now) she asks me for it.”

Faramir rose to his feet and went to his writing desk. He slid tenons and bevels to and fro until a secret compartment was revealed. Coming back, he held out his hand and placed something in my open palm.

As I looked at it I felt myself beginning to tremble with horror.

There, nestling in the palm of my hand, was a ring of Power. The last of the Nine. Or it might be truer to say: the First of the Nine – the ring from the hand of the High Nazgûl, leader of the Ringwraiths. He who had met his end in battle against no man, as had long ago been prophesied... but a woman! Éowyn, sister-daughter of Théoden King. Inert though it was, its dread memory darkened my mind with long shadows.

It was a silver ring, bearing a polished black stone with a metallic sheen, which I knew to be haematite. The silver-work was delicate, consisting of intertwined brambles wrought in the finest detail, through which at intervals tiny roses peered. Only when I looked closer, the brambles turned to spiked chains, and the roses to skulls.

Imalad could not have described it to me more exactly.

 

 

 

Next morning, bright and early, Faramir himself roused me with breakfast in bed and when I’d got dressed we rode out hunting. We didn’t shoot anything. Since Lady Éowyn disapproved of killing animals just for sport, when they were not needed for food, we reminded ourselves that we’d feasted well on venison the night before and simply got as close as we could to the beasts, drawing beads on their graceful necks.

Back at the house by lunchtime, it was Faramir who broached the subject of the ring once more.

“We spoke of many things last night, but in the hours of darkness there are some matters it is wise to leave till daylight. I couldn’t help but notice the light of recognition in your eyes when you beheld the copy I’d had made of the Angrennan.”

“What did you call it? _Angrennan_? Sounds like something made of iron!”

Faramir explained the Sindarin derivation to me.

“It’s _The Angrennan_.” He stressed the definite article. “Ang-ren-adan. Iron – wrought – man. The Ironman. The foremost of the Nine.”

“I never imagined it had a name!”

“All the rings had names. Even the One. Though nobody dared utter _that_.”

“And – _copy_ , did you say?”

“Yes, I told you I’d had a copy made.”

“What was it you showed me last night?”

Faramir rose to his feet, went to his writing desk and extracted the ring again. “It is only a copy,” he declared. “The original is kept concealed by my dear wife in the Houses of Healing – and don’t ask me where.”

He gazed down at the ring in his hand. “Just as surgeons and other healers have sharp blades to cleave the flesh and apothecaries have violent poisons to strike a man dead, so the Houses of Healing keep safe this deadly thing, as a palladian against the dreadful ailments of man. Particularly those of gnawing regret, despair and loss of heart. For, as you know, a tiny dose of what induces a malady is sovereign against that same malady. Opposites inflame each other, but like disarms like. That fell ring of Power, in Éowyn’s hands, has healed many a poor soul.”

He shook his head as if emerging from a reverie. “But tell me. Have you perchance seen it before?”

“No, not exactly... but I’ve had it accurately described to me. In circumstances so suspicious that I have a mind to go back and ask Lady Éowyn if she still has the original in her possession. Or whether, unbeknownst, somebody might not have stolen it.”

Faramir stared at me open-mouthed. “That is an astounding thing to say! Who might have stooped to such a deed?”

“I’m not altogether sure. But let us say, for the sake of argument... _Morfindel_. I’m in the course of enquiries which are shedding a very strange light on the matter.”

I said it would help me enormously in my investigation if I could purchase his copy from him, but without a word he placed it in my hand and folded my fingers over it. He would take no payment, declaring that the object in itself was of scant value and he could always get another copy made.

That afternoon I returned to Minas Ithil with this ominous thing in my possession. As I approached the City so long associated with it and its monstrous bearer I felt as though it were growing heavier and heavier in my pocket, fake though I knew it to be. Or to be cruelly precise – supposed it to be.  



	7. A Nice Little Earner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

As you go into Minas Ithil across the bridge you find yourself heading up Whitebridgegate towards the marketplace and the ruins of the Tower of the Moon. Take a left and soon you’re back on the city walls, gazing out over tumbling slopes of pine and cedar far below you. You have to be careful on a windy day because it’s a sheer drop of 500 ft into the gorge. There’s a short row of weavers’ cottages at the head of the steps winding down to the Old Mill. That was where Guthmud had his headquarters. The cottages were now nothing but a facade. Behind them he’d built extensive modern premises.

“Mr Overdale to see Guthmud son of Gothmog,” I said to the girl behind the hatch.

“Master Guthmud says you’re to go right in,” she replied cheerily.

This was Guthmud’s palantír-recycling plant. They came in by the cartload, packed in straw, although why the straw I didn’t know then – you could drop a palantír off the city walls and it would just smash a few rocks. Though they do say the newer ones scratch easily.

I saw orcs, in row upon row of benches, working away unpacking the things, examining them for damage, tuning them, conditioning them, proving them, feeding in a few commercials and then packing them in bright gift boxes for the markets of Dale and Minas Tirith.

Guthmud came out of the side office and raised his hands expansively.

“Impressive operation you have here,” I observed.

“It’s a nice little earner,” he agreed. “It started as a hobby but it’s just grown and grown. The trouble is, parents buy these things, but after a month or two the children lose interest. We buy them up cheap and sell ‘em dear. Which is the way to make money of course.”

“Why isn’t everybody cashing in?”

“Nobody else has the skills, me boy. This place isn’t called Dûshgoi – Sorcery City – for nothing. It just takes a nasty wight to get into one and you’re reduced to using it as a garden ornament – and sometimes it has to be a pretty remote part of the garden! Well – all these chaps are able to get them out, see?”

“I should have thought their skills were much in demand all over Middle Earth and they wouldn’t have to remain here in Minas Ithil.”

“Don’t you believe it! Doing this sort of work you get so much noise in the head, you just want to go off at the end of the day and smash something. The boys in here drift out to the local bars and they get in fights and they smash the place up... the sorts of things that would only be tolerated in Minas Ithil.”

“So they really get the wights out, do they?”

Guthmud gave me a sly look. “Well let’s just say they put them to sleep. The kids get a month or so of solid play out of them, which is all they have the attention span for these days, then the stones come rolling back to us again. ‘Take it away! Please!’” He chuckled.

“I can see how it could be quite a lucrative business. Is this the sum total of it here?”

He looked at me wide-eyed. “What? Geddaway! You don’t think I could make a living out of _this_ do you?”

“I’m impressed. All crammed into one street in the purlieus of Minas Ithil!”

“Well I wouldn’t say that. Minas Ithil is the showroom. It’s nice around these parts. Trees... pretty birds singing songs...” Guthmud had a slight lisp as well as a wheezy chest, so the way he said it nearly gave me an attack of the giggles. “Most of the operation’s in Udûn. It’s not a proper fire horse if it isn’t from Udûn.”

“Fire horses? You assemble them here too?”

“No... Minas Ithil is the showroom, like I said. A bit of repair, a bit of maintenance... here! – come and look at this!”

He led me downstairs through extensive cellars. I call them cellars although the street sloped so much that they came out at ground level at one end, where there were big double doors. I thought – what a marvellous place for dark deeds. They’d stand comparison with the dungeons of Dol Guldur.

In a stall by itself in the corner was a single fire horse. It stood as still as a statue. In place of the head it had an empty skull. Otherwise the creature was sleek and well groomed.

“There! Isn’t she a beauty!”

I’d never been this close to a fire horse before. I looked at it with horrid fascination.

“I suppose it doesn’t get lonely?”

“Nah! You’ve got to keep them in stalls by themselves. Not in a stable with natural horses because the other beasts go wild with terror. Now this one’s bred from the best Rohan stock – mostly.”

“So you actually breed them as fire horses, do you?”

Guthmud gaped at me in amazement. “How would you do that? No – you take a normal horse, keep it in the dark for two years, except when you’re exercising it (best done at night) and flame it all over frequently. This induces the muscles to respond to stimulation with the old amber and cat-skin. Then you give it the Treatment.”

“Where do you get the horses from?”

“I buy ‘em. People know I buy ‘em, so they come in with them, whenever they’ve got one or two to spare.”

“Do you buy them from the Rohirrim? I know they’ve been grousing about how the new-fangled fire horses have been killing their trade.”

“Not directly from them. They’re a bit cagey about selling their beloved hacks to make fire horses out of. But most of the breeds I see look pretty familiar, if you’ve travelled in that part of the world.”

“You don’t suppose people are rustling them and selling them on to you, do you?”

Guthmud put his wide grinning face close to mine. “Frankly I don’t ask questions, unless the price is too high. It’s none of my business, I tell my dealers! And they respect me for that.”

Taking a torch out of a bracket in the wall, Guthmud waved it across the empty eye-sockets of the pale white skull. There was a “whumpf!” and flames appeared behind the eyes.

“There! Care for a canter?”

“Not around here, I don’t think,” I replied cautiously. “I’m not at all happy guiding my own horse around the City. And I wouldn’t know how to ride it.”

“You ride it just like a normal horse,” said Guthmud, “except it’s more obedient. The better ones learn to read your mind, so you don’t have to go controlling them with reins and spurs. You can’t anyway – it doesn’t feel pain. Some say it’s in so much pain already a little more makes no difference. You can also have the geography of the district burnt into their minds, although ‘mind’ is a figurative term with these beasts, you understand. Then you just have to think where you want to go and it goes there.”

“That’s neat!”

“The stamina is phenomenal! It doesn’t tire in the normal sense. But you do have to watch it doesn’t overheat. See? – the red light here on the control panel.”

I had noticed the tablet with pins and glowing gems set in the skull between the ears – which were really chimneys bent out of sheet steel as far as I could tell. Inscribed on the tablet I could see the words in the Black Speech for ‘whoa’ and ‘giddy-up’. I was sure it wasn’t as easy to handle as Guthmud made out.

“What does it run on?”

“Well – it doesn’t eat grass any more!” He sniffed. “Neat spirit, poured in here. Plus a little flesh now and then. Alive or dead, any condition. In Udûn it’ll forage for itself.”

“Very nice,” I nodded, trying to appear appreciative.

“How’re you getting on with your own horse?”

“Bess? Had her for years. Very fond of her – wouldn’t want to part with her. But she’s been getting a bit wilful recently.”

“Well, bring her in – we’ll give her the Treatment.”

 

 

 

Back in his office, Guthmud set two small glasses on the table and poured some tarry stuff into each. I sniffed mine cautiously. It smelt as disgusting as it looked and if you’d brought so much as a spark near it I’m sure it would have gone up with a whoosh. We drank a toast to the palantír business and another to the fire horse business. I must admit the second drink went down a lot easier than the first.

“Been travelling abroad a lot?”

“That’s all I’ve been doing this last twenty years,” I replied. “I was brought up in Gondor, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen the place. Minas Tirith I hardly recognise. Nor Minas Ithil, come to that.”

“Yes, we’ve made great strides. And the place across the river has mellowed down a bit. There’s some good bars there now, if you go with a group of lads. You don’t want to go alone – not if you’re an orc.”

Guthmud sat down and folded his fingers. “So tell me, young man. What’s your line of business? Are you into palantíri yourself?”

“Not especially. I’m a merchant of happy faces. Whenever I see a sad face I tried to think what I’ve seen in my travels which would turn it into a happy face.”

Guthmud beamed at me. The idea obviously appealed to him. “Well,” he said, “sell me a happy face. I’m a connoisseur of them.”

“You’re looking pretty happy already,” I said. “But I think I know what might turn up the corners of your mouth a bit more.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the fake Angrennan which Faramir had given me. I put it on my finger, clenched my fist, and with arm outstretched held it under Guthmud’s nose.

The expression on his face was everything I’d hoped for. His father Gothmog, of course, would have been perfectly familiar with the ring, assuming he was the same Gothmog who’d been the Castellan of the Tower of the Moon, something I had no reason to doubt. I had wondered, of course, how familiar the son would have been with the father’s affairs.

I needn’t have worried. He recognised the ring all right.

His heavy eyebrows lifted and his bulbous eyes stared. Then his mouth dropped open and his head craned forward. “ _Ma-thrakug, tark-ash, Krithob nazg, agh?!_ ” he muttered before he could stop himself. (Brings-he, man-of-Gondor-this, of-the-Nine a-ring, eh?!)

A cunning look passed over his face. “Know a bit of the local lingo, do you?”

“I know so many languages I’ve lost count. Though I wouldn’t like to go buying and selling in most of them. Let’s just keep to the Westron, shall we? I know the price of things in that tongue.”

Guthmud chuckled. “And can you rattle off the top of your head the price of that ring?”

“How much do you think a ring like this changes hands for? That’s if you’ve ever seen anything like it changing hands?”

“No,” said Guthmud slowly. “I don’t believe I have. Not _changing_ hands.”

“Well let me tell you – it’s very expensive. I don’t suppose for a moment you’ve got enough in your back pocket.”

Guthmud grinned up at me, a big wide toothy grin. It was like staring a wolf in the mouth. He was about to suggest a figure, then he held back, flinching slightly, as if he knew I was going to laugh in his face.

“Let’s start the bidding seriously,” he said. “Twenty thousand crowns.”

Wow! I thought to myself, he was serious! I kept my half-smile fixed in-place. “Keep going,” I said. “A few more noughts.”

He had been holding his breath, but now he snapped back in his chair and let out an explosive gasp. “Ha! It’s a collector’s item of course. But there aren’t many collectors who’d aspire to owning that! Well, don’t let me kid you I can afford it. You are going to have to carry that heavy burden around a bit longer.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said quietly. “I’ve barely begun to exhibit it. I’m only the agent, of course. Not the owner, who prefers to remain anonymous. But I can produce good authority to sell it, if called upon to do so. I fancy I know one or two folk who’d be interested in taking a look at it, at the very least. A collector’s item, did you say? I think it takes a collector who’s also interested in palantíri really to appreciate its value.”

It was a dangerous thing to say, but I thought I’d give it a try.

As if coming to a decision Guthmud slapped his hands on the desk. “I think I could find you a buyer,” he said. “There’d be a small commission for the introduction. Let us say... 10 per cent. Are you going to be around for the next few days?”

“On and off,” I said. “I’ve booked rooms in the Headless Horseman for use while I’m in the City. I’m not going to be here all the time – far from it. But if you want to leave a message for me, that’s the place to leave it.”

I didn’t want him to know my precise movements. Already I fancied he was scheming away in his ugly bonce how to lay his hands on the ring for nothing.  



	8. The Terror in the Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

It was getting dusk as I left Guthmud and made my way towards the Headless Horseman. When I got back to the inn I enquired after Goldberry.

The bar lady told me she wasn’t there. She had gone to Minas Tirith for the day to see her girlfriend. An empty evening stretched ahead of me. Moodily I wandered back out into the gloaming and decided to take a stroll round the city walls.

Minas Ithil is one of the spookiest places I know to walk round at night. The ruins of the old Morgul Tower glimmered pale in the light of the waxing Moon. Like reflected like, I thought to myself. In the warm summer evenings the local lads made beer-money out of taking tourists on ghost walks. But it’s not a thing you’d want to do out-of-season.

I was careful to walk the walls widdershins. Going round the other way you never know what you might wind up. As I was strolling south along the westerly wall, not far from Guthmud’s workshops, I heard a piercing scream echoing in the darkness. Making a dash for the nearest steps I hurried down and plunged into the maze of narrow streets, heading in the approximate direction of the scream.

I saw a little knot of people standing in the middle of the road. A single street lamp lit the scene with a sickly glimmer. Hurrying up I pushed aside the idle bystanders’ shoulders and glanced down.

A little orc lad was lying stretched out in the gutter, his eyes open and staring at nothing. In his lap, still clutched in his hands, knuckles showing white, lay a palantír. I thought I saw something nasty glimmering in the centre for a moment, but as I looked it vanished and the stone went dark.

Picking up the palantír I stuffed it into one of the deep pockets in my cloak. Then I knelt down to see what I could do for the lad.

“Do you know him?” said one old codger.

“No,” I said, “but I think I know what he’s been doing.”

“Ee!” exclaimed an old crone. “I wouldn’t let my grandchildren play with one of them things.” The others growled in agreement and began to drift off in twos and threes.

I chafed the boy’s hands and gave his cheeks a light slapping. He looked for all the world as if he was dead. I knew I had to get him somewhere warm and cheerful. Slinging his limp form over my shoulder I struck out away from the walls in a direction which would take me to the town centre. Soon I came upon a little street cafe, with green slatted chairs and chequered tablecloths on the tables. I set the boy down in a chair near the brazier, where he slumped until he began to stir.

“What’s the matter with him?” said the waiter.

“He’s had a nasty fright, that’s all. Something hot and sweet, please. And an ice-cream.”

Well, terrible things have been known to happen to people looking into strange palantíri, but there’s nothing it does to a kid which an ice-cream doesn’t cure, provided it’s applied promptly. Soon the little lad was tucking into a pile of chocolate ice surrounded with apricots and sprinkled with hundreds-and-thousands. I couldn’t get him to speak until he’d finished, so I gave up trying.

“What’s your name, son?” I eventually asked.

“Snargfrid son of Guthmud,” he replied. “Everyone calls me Snargy.”

“You had a bad turn back there, Snargy,” I said.

He looked at me as if he couldn’t remember a thing.

“Where did you get the palantír?”

“Not saying.”

“Is it your dad’s?”

Since the little lad would say neither “yes” nor “no” I took it for “yes”. “We’ll have to get it back to him,” I said. “Leave it with me.”

He made no objection to that. I think it had exhausted its appeal for him.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“No. I can find my own way back.”

“You’d better go straight home now. Won’t your mum be worried?”

“Haven’t got no mum.” He got up as if to go.

“Stick around, my lad,” I said. “Let’s talk a little.” I was so disappointed at not finding Goldberry in that even chatting to a diminutive orc urchin in a street cafe was better than doing nothing all evening. It didn’t cross my mind to go to the fetish club. I knew nobody there and didn’t have any gear anyway.

“What happened to your mum then?” It’s a complete myth, made up by the elves, that orcs are spawned in the ground. They have mothers like anyone else. Though they do go in for cloning.

“Got killed,” he said miserably.

With a little probing it emerged that his mother was out travelling one day when she was set upon by Elladan’s and Elrohir’s ruffians and hacked to death. It’s impossible for an elf to tell a male orc from a female, but I shook my head sadly. I know they’ve got a grievance against orcs, but they could really do with being a little more discriminating in whom they targeted.

It seemed that Guthmud was fond enough of the little lad, as much as any busy father can be, and took him around the place with him. Snargy had quickly learned to be seen and not heard, and most of the time not to be seen, if he could contrive it.

When I got back to my room in the Headless Horseman I took a good look at my acquisition. I looked for a serial number – there was none. I knew I had a classic palantír. I put the thing in my lap and began to gaze into it.

But not for long.

Soon I had it well wrapped up in a towel and was invoking every banishing spell I could think of. It was the Ithil Stone! One of the original Seven Stones set up by the Numenórean kings in the marches of their kingdom. When the Ringwraiths captured Minas Ithil all those years ago, it had fallen into their hands. It had been used by the High Nazgûl to communicate with his master, the Dark Lord. It was not a thing to go lightly looking into.

I wondered what I could possibly do with it. It was quite obviously Guthmud’s. If I tried to sell it, it could easily be traced back to him. He must have inherited it from his father Gothmog, who became master of Minas Ithil when the High Nazgûl fell in battle. Sooner or later Guthmud would miss it. And there again he might not!

Early next morning I penned a note to Guthmud and sent the thing round to his office, well wrapped up. In the note I asked him to give me what he thought it was worth. That should reassure him, I thought, that I hadn’t stolen it from his premises and was holding it for ransom. Rather I had recovered it on his behalf and was returning it promptly. I needed his goodwill, not his money. But since he might have been suspicious had I simply given it back as a favour I decided to make myself out to be venal and mercenary and expect some sort of reward. But I was careful not to mention Snargy. In the note I reminded him I was staying at the Headless Horseman and to address his reply to me there.

Then I mounted my horse and rode in haste to Minas Tirith. I had no expectation of encountering Goldberry there – I didn’t know her whereabouts in the City – but I needed to make a further examination of the scene of crime. I was sure the bedroom held more secrets than it had hitherto yielded up.

 

 

 

Back in Morfindel’s bedroom I began a careful examination of the woodwork, tapping panels and prying into cracks. I also tried a few opening spells for good measure. Before conducting my search I had checked the secret passage by which Imalad had come at our first meeting.

It led down by a spiral staircase to the ground floor, where it emerged beneath the main staircase. Nobody pursuing a normal path along the Grand Hallway or mounting the staircase would be able to see the exit. Indeed, a person coming out that way could wait and listen until it was safe to issue forth into the corridor beside the stairs, which led to servants’ quarters and offices in a choice of directions. Once in the open corridor, you could have been coming from simply anywhere.

The entrances to the secret passage appeared to have no lock, relying on concealment for their privacy. Once you knew their position, you simply had to grasp the woodwork and pull. I hoped the same would be true for any other passages I might discover.

It didn’t take me long to find a second passage. It was in the corner beneath a shelf on which stood a bust of a former Steward of Gondor. The corner panelling opened inwards like a double-door. Once you knew it was there, it looked for all the world like a doorway. I didn’t think it was well-concealed at all. Behind the double-door was another spiral staircase. I began to creep up it.

At the top, in darkness, I wondered to myself where I was going to emerge. Since it was likely to be somewhere private I felt it politic to rap on the woodwork before pushing, then trust to my ready tongue and the fact that I was on the King’s business to talk my way out of trouble.

I pushed and the hidden door swung open. I found myself face-to-face with the King.

He was sitting at his writing desk, regarding me with amusement. “Well, Goss, like I always said – leave you alone and you’ll eventually find out everything there is to find.”

“I do apologise for intruding, Sire. I deemed it necessary to explore all aspects of the victim’s bedroom.”

The King was sitting to my right. To my left was the fireplace. There was a poker in the grate.

“That’s all right, Goss. I do understand. Feel free to nose around here too, if you like.”

There was no fire in the grate. I knelt down in front of the fireplace and picked up the poker. I was careful not to stand up with it – it’s not a good idea to go brandishing a weapon in the king’s presence, whoever you are.

The handle of the poker was substantial – you could easily grasp it with both hands. The shank was of square cross section, swelling out at the tip to a shape rather like a carrot. My bottom tingled. I put it down again without a word.

Aragorn must have read my mind. “There are matching pokers in every bedroom in the White Tower,” he observed.

The King had not been present when the Inspector of Corpses had given his report. I supposed however that Bergil could have told him what sort of murder weapon was used.

“I was just curious, Sire. The poker in Morfindel’s bedroom appears to be missing.”

“You’d better tell Bergil that. I don’t think he knows. He ought to make a search for it. However I imagine it only has to be used once subsequently for its proper purpose and all trace of it being the murder weapon would disappear.”

“That’s what I’d imagine too, Sire. But the Inspector of Corpses might know something we don’t.”

“You’ll have to ask him. Do you want to take the poker?”

“Not at this moment, Sire.” I was certain that that line of investigation was pointless. Even if a particular poker could have been identified as the murder weapon, which was unlikely, its whereabouts would tell us nothing. There had been ample time for the perpetrator to go swapping them around.

“When I was last speaking to Imalad son of Imrahil, Sire, he told me that Captain Bergil had arrested the Inspector of Corpses.”

The King laughed. “On your recommendation he has let him free again. You could never accuse Bergil of sitting on his hands. But perhaps it is better that way. Rather do the thing you shouldn’t, provided the damage can be reversed, rather than leave undone the thing you should.”

I rose to my feet. “I have a question to ask, Sire. I hope you won’t consider it impertinent...”

“Even if it is?”

“I am merely taking the advice you just uttered, Sire. But I have a mind to ask – what if one of your courtiers was annoying you, or blackmailing you, or you simply grew tired of having him around? How would you get rid of him?”

The King answered immediately – he needed no time to consider his reply. “I’m able to send men to their deaths, you know,” he said. “I don’t need to murder them myself, in my own palace.”

It was a fair answer. Yet I persisted. “But suppose, for the sake of argument, that you did. Maybe in haste, out of anger or fear, without first considering the alternatives. What remedy does the Ancient Law of Gondor prescribe for that?”

This time the King did hesitate before replying. “When the Law was formulated I don’t think the possibility was even conjectured! It would be up to the judge to make a pronouncement, having considered all aspects of the case. Speaking for myself I would argue in my own defence that my personally killing a Ward of the King de-facto withdraws the royal protection from him.”

“So it is possible, once granted, for the royal protection to be withdrawn?”

“Oh, yes! Although it is sometimes difficult, and usually inadvisable, there is nothing I can do which I cannot undo. Except bring a dead man back to life again.”

“In view all the complaints, Sire, which you must have received about the son of Gollum, were you ever of a mind to withdraw the royal protection?”

“Never for a moment. I had of course no idea some of the things he would get up to. But when I took him into my – er – close confidence I knew I was taking a man with creative capacities far beyond those of normal men. So right from the start you could say I implicitly assented to all the things he might do.”

“Even if some of those things turned out to be criminal?”

“Morfindel son of Gollum was responsible to me alone. And he knew it. Whatever I asked him to do he’d do it. Whatever I told him to undo he’d undo it. Never once did he disobey me. I must confess that some of the things that came to my ears afforded me considerable amusement. Life was getting so boring.”

“Nevertheless it might have been, Sire, that he was planning a fatal blow against you. He would have been a fool to plan for anything less than fatal.”

Aragorn cast his eyes downwards and toyed with the quill pen on his blotter. “That is exactly what I fear. And were one of my loyal subjects to discover such a plot, they might well have taken the administration of justice into their own hands, particularly if it was a matter of urgency. I would not like to have my hands tied when it comes to dealing with such a person. Do you have your suspicions?”

“Most decidedly, Sire. But for the present they are merely suspicions. And now, by your leave, I’d like to have words with Megastir, now that he has been released. And I was in such haste to continue my investigation of the bedroom that I failed to report my presence here to Captain Bergil.”

“Forget Bergil. I should find Megastir first, if I were you. On his release he happened to express his disappointment that you had not visited him in prison.”

“I – I was busy. It never occurred to me that the Inspector of Corpses would have welcomed a visit from me.”

“He spoke less out a sense of personal slight than out of a desire to tell you something important. In private. At least that was the impression I formed when Bergil told me about it.”

 

 

 

Taking leave of the King I hastened south along the Sixth Circle to the mortuary. I hadn’t the slightest doubt I’d find Megastir there. But for some reason I didn’t stop. Instead I walked past the entrance and kept on walking until I got to the gate in the back wall of the City. There’s a watchman there, but he doesn’t stop anyone these days – you can just go through and tiptoe down the rick-rack path to Rath Dínen, the Street of Silence, stretched out beneath the louring cliff of Mount Mindolluin.

Soon I found myself wandering among the tombs of the Kings of Gondor, brooding in perpetuity within that dim strait. The House of the Stewards loomed before me, still stained and streaked with fire. The memory of the terrible end of the Last of the Ruling Stewards was still painful to the City. It was not so much out of neglect, as in tribute to the enduring pain, that the edifice had been left unwashed, unscraped, the cracks and crazes wrought by the pyre of Denethor weathering into the stone’s heart.

I peered in through the shattered crystal of a side window. There had been no movement to draw my eye, but it came to rest on the still figure of a woman. She was draped in a thin black shawl which hid her face and she sat beside Denethor’s charred skeleton as he lay on his marble slab, still clad in the black armour he had worn without respite through those last dismal days of his life.

The woman was Goldberry!

I saw her reach forth and take the blackened palantír from Denethor’s withered hands. Rubbing the soot from a spot with the heel of her hand to make a window into its depths, she peered within. I stood stricken, my temples throbbing, unable to move or even breathe. I fully expected to see her fall back with a cry, just as Snargy had done when he ventured to scry the Ithil Stone in his childish curiosity.

But no such thing happened. Presently she sighed and shook her head. Then, stretching forth her hand once more, she replaced the palantír in Denethor’s sooted claws. With head bowed, she remained withdrawn in the dark of her own depths, sitting hunched over the old warrior as he lay in the last extremity of defeat.

Suddenly I knew I didn’t want her to see me there, spying on her. Slowly I eased my face away from the broken window and crept back the way I’d come. Should I have called out to her? – spoken her name? Called her back to the world of light and life? But I knew that even if I’d shrieked aloud to her, she wouldn’t have heard me. She would have stayed sitting wrapped in cobwebs of grief, veiled in black like a gaunt crow, steeped in the futility of an old man’s despair.

 

 

 

Soon I was back at the mortuary. The door was unlocked, so I pushed my way in and called out Megastir’s name. There was no answer. I was just turning to go out again when it occurred to me that, now at liberty, he was unlikely to leave the door unlocked when he was elsewhere. I began to make a search of the various rooms of the mortuary.

The last room I came upon was windowless and cavernous. Taking a cresset from the wall and lighting it with my tinderbox I crept in beneath the black stone archway, carved with skulls and long-bones, yew-berries and lilies of the night.

Along the walls on either side were tanks for corpses, each like a marble bath filled with preserving fluid. A subtle mix of pungent herbs banished the fearful reek of death, with which I was all too familiar, but it could not restore life to the stagnant air. Out of little more than curiosity I peered into each bath as I passed. Some were empty, but a few contained corpses in various stages of dissection. A headless trunk was there, of the right stature to be that of the son of Gollum. If so, it had been pared down considerably since last I had set eyes upon it. Eviscerated and devoid of skin and muscle, it looked like nothing so much as a cast-off suit of elvish armour.

It was only after I had pried into each tank and was about to tiptoe out again, that I thought to take a closer look at the black plinth on a dais at the end of the room. There on the slab of shiny marble, pale smoky wisps on deepest black, beneath a sable drape embroidered with the arms of the City, was a corpse dissected down to the skeleton. It was the body of a tall thin man with prominent ribs. Ribs to set shirt buttons buzzing as he laughed his booming laugh. Which he would never do again.  



	9. Fear, Fire, Foes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

It was an unhappy afternoon I spent with Captain Bergil. We held back from mutual recriminations, but the occurrence of a second murder, with even fewer clues to go on than before, weighed heavily on our hearts. If Bergil hadn’t hastened to silence the Inspector of Corpses by throwing him in gaol, and if I hadn’t exerted myself to get him released, might he not have been still alive?

If... if...!

As I rode back to Osgiliath I couldn’t expel from my mind the sight of Goldberry, wrapped in thought, sitting on the tomb of the last of the ruling Stewards, scrying the most unlucky of all the palantíri. The more I considered it, the more sinister its possibilities grew. I called home briefly for a change of clothes, then I rode on to Minas Ithil, meaning to catch Goldberry and confront her with what I had seen her do.

Night had fallen by the time I rode over the White Bridge into the sullen city. The sky had grown dark and heavy clouds had drifted down the sides of the Ephel Duath, to congregate in Morgul Vale. So it was that I failed to notice the smoke which hung over the city, until in Whitebridgegate I saw it lit up from below with a flickering glimmer. The Headless Horseman stood back from the street down an alleyway, so it wasn’t until I had drawn level with it that I saw where the smoke was coming from.

The inn was on fire!

It was raging out of control. A crowd had gathered to watch it burn to the ground. A fat orc in a singed pink tutu scrambled squealing under Bess’s nose. I dismounted from Bess and whispered a few words of comfort in her ear. She withdrew a little way back to wait for me.

I thrust myself to the front of the crowd, which stood with glowing faces, basking in the flames. A couple of elves in make-up, black leather straps, sandals and little else, hobbled past in front of me. One seemed to have injured his leg and was being supported by the other. A rider of Rohan, clad in a long red dress split up the thigh, was shouting orders to someone hidden in the midst of the throng. I recognised the landlady standing all by herself and I went and put my arm round her shoulders.

She gave a start, then she buried her face in my armpit. “Oh it’s you Goss!” came her muffled voice.

“Where’s Goldberry?”

“I don’t know – I think she’s still inside...” She began sobbing uncontrollably, stuffing her apron in her mouth.

Letting go of her I dashed up to one of the fire-fighters as he grabbed the next bucket of water from the bucket chain and was about to throw it on the fire. I seized the bucket from him and poured it over my own head. Then I plunged into the building through the smoking doorway.

The reek hit me like a stifling monster. I dropped to the ground and crawled through the bar to the back rooms. “Goldberry!” I shouted as I went. “Goldberry!”

I put my shoulder to the door of the first room and burst it open. Inside – plenty of whips, chained collars, handcuffs and leg-irons. Spiky belts were draped over chairs. Curly-topped canes and black scourges like floppy spiders were strewn about, as were several elaborate heavy blunt daggers. Racks and wheels and other exciting instruments of torture leaned drunkenly this way and that.

The next room was full of black leather wipe-clean chairs and couches. Interesting pictures hung on the walls, which were beginning to crack and leak smoke. Still no sign of Goldberry.

Another room followed, full of stuffed toy bears, furry gloves, dummies, nappies and hot water bottles, cots and huge coloured safety-pins. A pile of powder-puffs lay in a heap. Smoke hung in the air like a miniature thundercloud, but it was not going to rain in here.

A quick glimpse of a piggery, except it was intended as a wallow for nominally intelligent beings. The stink was atrocious, particularly as it was beginning to bubble and boil. I shut the door fast.

I looked in yet another room, well-equipped with full-length mirrors, feather boas, palm fronds, fans, dashing hats and wigs richly endowed with curls and braids, sequinned dresses, black cloaks lined with red satin and polished high boots with flamboyant buckles. All waiting to be rendered down to black ash. Thus passes the glitter of the world.

Another room followed, full of baths of foam, scrubbing brushes, soap and thick fluffy towels, tiled surrounds and wash-stands. Great ewers of hot water stood around, steaming. This time they wouldn’t grow cold as they waited patiently to be employed.

I dashed up the stairs three at a time. Smoke poured up from between the treads. I plunged into the first room. Numerous cubicles met my eye, each with a plain black moistproof bed within, of all widths and heights, some single, some double, some for three or more, Some for standing, kneeling or hanging upside-down at just the right height. Some with exercise bars conveniently placed to grip from any position.

Then into the next room. The groan-machine, with its cords and tubes and flimsy membranes, still gasped and sighed like a hundred labouring galley slaves. It was there to drown out the creaks and noises you made with your partner, so that you didn’t have to listen in shame to the silence echoing your passion, nor be distracted by sniggers from an adjoining cubicle.

“Goldberry!” I shouted over and over again. Only the crackle of burning wood came back to me in answer. Either it didn’t hear me or it was studiously ignoring me, absorbed in its all-consuming business. Was it busy with the person I was calling?

Behind the door at the end of the corridor I saw a glow like the sun through chinks in the wood. The fire rumbled and crackled like a great forest beast, lying chewing up fallen branches, waiting for its chance to leap out and devour me.

A sharp crack made me turn round. Behind me the ceiling descended like honey from a spoon, hitting the floor with an orange flash and a crash of thunder, throwing up a shower of sparks and gledes. There was no way back. Hurling myself into the last room I flung wide the window. A sudden rush of wind nearly threw me onto my back. I felt a stinging sensation in my arm – my cloak was burning at the elbow! I slapped it out.

Struggling back to the casement I saw below me the moonlight glinting off ripples in a pond. The wind had risen and was blowing back the smoke and flames. A star twinkled encouragement from the pool’s depth. With no time to gauge whether it was shallow or deep, muddy or clear, I scrambled up onto the ledge and leapt out. As I did so, the solid world I had left behind me swirled and dissolved in sparks and flames.

The landing was soft – the pond was full of lilies and other water weed and rejoiced in a rich lining of stinking sludge. As I crawled to the brink, two loving arms slid round my neck and two lips pressed against my muddy forehead.

“Goss! You’re safe! Thank the Stars!”

“Goldberry! My gorgeous, my poppet! I was in there looking for you!”

“I know. They told me. And all the time I was out here, shivering in the dark, dreading to think what had become of you.”

There were people all around shouting. A crowd had gathered about us in the firelight. But for all we cared, we could have been lazing on a sunny hilltop, nobody within leagues of us.

“Oh, my love! Do I really matter so much to you?”

“You matter more... than anything...!”

I reached up to embrace her, but a tangled mass of wet vines and tendrils held me back. Enraged I snapped “We can’t seem to get away from bloody water-lilies!”

Sitting in a pond covered in muddy slime, her livelihood ablaze, Goldberry had an attack of the giggles.

 

 

 

We didn’t stay to watch the fire die down. Goldberry began shivering uncontrollably and I felt cold and feverish at one and the same time. Both of us were soaked to the skin. Arms around each other, I grabbed Bess by the bridle and the three of us dragged ourselves off in the direction of the Morgul Tower and Goldberry’s apartment.

We haven’t gone very far however when the figure of an orc loomed up out of the darkness. I recognised Guthmud.

“Well well well! It’s Mr Overdale. And you’ve found a new companion. An entertaining fire, eh?”

“Was it one of your boys that did that?” I growled.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Now I come to think of it, one of my best workers was complaining that he couldn’t get it out of his head.”

“Get what out?”

“Oh... images of fire and clutching hands, skeletons in suits of armour and black widows sitting brooding on tombs like crows. He went off after work in a foul mood, with me shouting after him ‘Get a life!’ Typical wight-obsession, I’d call that. I’ll have to get him a course of counselling. I suppose you didn’t see him at the bar, did you, Miss Gee?

“I didn’t see much at all. I was lucky to escape with my life.”

Guthmud looked hard at Goldberry. “Yes... you can say that again.”

His tone annoyed me. He was the last person I wanted to meet at that moment, when all I yearned for was a warm stove, a mug of hot camomile tea and Goldberry on my lap.

“If you don’t mind, Master Guthmud, my friend here has just had a nasty experience and I want to get her home and out of her wet things.”

By the light of the street lamps I saw a half-smile playing on his lips. If he’d come out with something suggestive, as I thought he was going to, I’d have laid him out cold on the cobblestones.

“My dear Mr Overdale! I really don’t mean to stand in your way! I made a point of speaking to you, nerves a-jangle as they must be, to invite you back to my office – you know where it is. To give you and Miss Gee a chance to dry out in front of my hot stove and have something warming to drink. And it so happens I’ve got something to give you – something you’re expecting...”

He looked at us – hungrily, I thought. “Something nice to cheer you up. Both of you.”

Goldberry shuddered. She put her head down, meaning to brush past him without another word. I held her back. After all the effort I’d made to cultivate Guthmud, I didn’t really want to be rude to him, no matter how I felt at that particular moment. In a brittle, jolly voice I tried to persuade Goldberry that we should take up Guthmud’s kind offer. I thought she was going to make a break for it and run. But she didn’t. She trembled in my hands like a frightened fawn, persuaded to stay against her better judgement.

Back at his office, Guthmud was as good as his word. He stoked up the stove, putting plenty of wood on it, and soon had it blazing merrily. Then he went off and came back with towels and a pile of rather odd garments, which did at least had the merit of being clean, warm and dry. Then he absented himself yet again, to grant us the privacy to change into them.

“Master Guthmud,” I said when he came back, “this is most welcome– and most unexpected.”

“Don’t mention it, me boy. I felt so sorry for you both, seeing you dragging yourselves away from the fire. I thought the pair of you had nowhere to go. Miss Gee has been living over the premises, hasn’t she? You can both stay here for the night, you know. There’s bedrooms upstairs. Quite nice ones.”

Goldberry was about to say she had an apartment in town, but I tapped the back of her hand warningly.

“I’ve just been out to give Bess some hay,” continued Guthmud. “I’d offer to put her in the warm, downstairs, but I don’t think she’d fancy sharing a stall with my fire horse.”

“That is most considerate of you. No, she wouldn’t. She’ll be all right out there for now. We won’t stay long. I mean – if it’s all the same with you...”

Guthmud reached down a large ugly bottle from a tall glass-fronted cabinet – the stuff he’d served me on the first occasion. I recognised it now – it was Sharkuruk. Fishing around for three small glasses, he poured us each a little of the oily brown fluid.

Sharkuruk must be the most appalling cordial in the world! The label says it’s made with 53 different herbs (some you wouldn’t care to know about). It burned savagely as it went down, but after a vigorous shudder I felt much better. Orc medicine. If it doesn’t hurt, they don’t believe it’s doing you any good.

“Ahh! As welcome as a shot of Imladris miruvor!”

“You’re joking of course,” grinned Guthmud nastily. I realised my gaffe. I thought of Snargy and his mother’s death at the hands of a raiding-party out of Rivendell. Had Guthmud loved his wife? Did the word ‘love’ mean anything to an orc? Yes – probably, in their own terms.

I turned and smiled encouragingly at Goldberry, who made polite show of taking tiny sips. She knew the drink all too well – they used to sell gallons of it in the Headless Horseman – but, as she told me afterwards, it seared her lips and burned holes in her clothes.

After a second glass (which Goldberry declined) Guthmud leaned back on his stool and said, “I must thank you for sending back my palantír. Where did you find it?”

“You won’t believe me if I told you,” I replied, trying to sound ingenuous. “But you really ought to tell your workers to be more careful with the goods they’re bringing in.”

Guthmud gave me a long low stare, nodding very slowly. I was about to reply with my frank open look when it occurred to me that shyness would pass off better. Giving a shrug of embarrassment I said, “If you really imagine I nicked it from you, you ought to ask yourself: how did I manage to do that – and how did I know you’d got it? It’s the Ithil Stone, isn’t it?”

Guthmud held up his hands. “Perish the thought, Mr Overdale!” Then he added slyly. “Had a glimpse in it?”

“Not for bloody long!” I replied and we both burst into grim laughter. I glanced aside at Goldberry and I could see her sitting there open-mouthed, possibilities hitherto unsuspected darkening the horizons of her mind.

“You don’t scry in it yourself, do you?”

“Not on your life!” he replied with unconcealed horror. “I only hang onto it because it’s a family heirloom. Ha-ha! Miss Gee will understand all about that! Won’t you, Miss Gee?”

Goldberry shut her mouth firmly. Guthmud was having a dig at her – and I couldn’t fathom it out. A strong suspicion was there in my mind of course that the Ithil Stone was the link between Goldberry’s tryst with Denethor that day and the blaze at the Headless Horseman. That wasn’t to say Guthmud had deliberately fired the joint – I guessed not. He wouldn’t be quite so boisterous about it, even if he was an orc, and he wouldn’t think it was a joke to share with us. But there was something else alluded-to in his sly remark. Family heirloom? Goldberry? What did he know about her that I didn’t?

“Let’s change the subject,” he said, reaching into his desk for a slip of paper. “Something much more bright and cheerful.” He handed the slip to me. “It’s to do with what we talked about the last time we met. If you’d like Miss Gee to accompany you, you’ll see it’s all been arranged.”

I stared at the slip of paper in my hand. It was a voucher for two people, good for three days at a luxury hotel as the honoured guests of Grimwald Uruksson – all expenses paid!

“It’s a business trip,” continued Guthmud with a wink. “You can write it off against taxes.”

My eyes lit up with anticipation – of enormous fun and deadly danger. I showed it Goldberry. “Coming?” I said. She was still too shocked to show any enthusiasm. But I knew she would the next day.

The hotel was famed throughout the whole of Middle Earth – eclipsing even Imladris, if that were possible. It was famed for its spa, its cuisine and its romantic location – if “romantic” is altogether the right word. A sparkling new palace of sensuous delights, which a consortium of enterprising orcs had built on the very summit of the Fire Mountain – Orodruin!

The by-now legendary Hotel Doom.

 

 

 

When we left Guthmud’s office, warm, dry and largely recovered, Goldberry was all for making her way back to her apartment and going straight to bed. I was more cautious.

“Goldberry,” I said. “I know where you were this afternoon, and what you were doing. And, I fancy – so does the Guthmud Gang. It must have been the Ithil Stone that betrayed you!”

She didn’t reply.

“You’ve been very silly,” I continued gently.

“Take me home.”

“I don’t think it’s safe to go home.”

She stopped still and put her knuckles to her lips. “What am I going to do?” she sobbed.

“You’re coming home with me.”

She lifted anxious eyes to mine.

I gave her shoulders a hug. “Guthmud and his gang don’t know who I really am. And more to the point, they don’t know where I live. They know me as ‘Mr Overdale’, a travelling merchant, recently arrived in Minas Ithil.”

I turned and patted Bess’s nose. Then, lifting up Goldberry in my arms, I placed her in the saddle and mounted up behind her. Turning Bess’s head about, we trotted back down Whitebridgegate, past the still-bright embers of the Headless Horseman and under the dim archway of the gate. I breathed a sigh of relief. We were out of that baleful city and on the road to Osgiliath, home and bed.  



	10. The Elves and the Son of Gollum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you. When you addressed the Council of Elrond all those years ago, did you know that Gollum had had inside help to escape?”

Down between us, out of sight, Goldberry’s fingers felt for mine. I’d had no idea how my friends were going to take it when I turned up at the Oliphaunt with Goldberry on my arm. I needn’t have fretted. Gimli was instantly captivated by her. And Legolas, though he’d never met her in person, knew all about her. Long known to the Elves of Mirkwood down the ages, before ever she’d met Tom, she was held amongst them in the highest regard, like an elf-queen. Nymphs are more ancient even than Elves.

Legolas, toying with his flagon of mead, responded to my question with a frank stare. “I found out soon enough when I discovered from the Galadhrim that Gladlas was in prison. The news came as a complete shock. Gladlas was one of the kindest, sweetest elves I knew in Mirkwood. I wondered then whether my father King Thranduil had deluded me, for I had learnt the news of Gollum’s escape from him and no other, and he had said to me not a word about Gladlas. But you must remember that I was despatched on my mission to Imladris immediately after Gollum’s escape, because of the extreme gravity of the matter. It was before the full facts had come to light.”

“ _Were_ the guards attacked by orcs?”

“Oh, yes. And all were killed. If Bergil says differently then he’s got his story wrong. Somehow Gollum must have got word to the orcs – I suspect wargs were involved – but whether Gladlas was implicated is something I have never been able to find out. My father the King was strongly of the opinion she knew all about it. After the Ringwars I tried to intercede with the King on behalf of the hapless maiden, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He said that conspiring in the escape of Gollum merited a heavy punishment in itself, if only because of the damage she had done. But then to go betraying her own people unto death was worthy of death in itself – and in keeping her in prison until she died he was yet showing her mercy.”

“That could have been a long time,” I mused. “I thought elves were immortal.”

“Not when they are denied the light of day,” said Goldberry. “True, Legolas?”

“True, my Lady. Just as orcs cannot bear it long in broad daylight, so elves cannot bear to be underground for any length of time. In the woods they do not fear the dark. They feast on starlight.”

“Dwarves need neither the light of sun, moon nor stars to remain in perfect health,” said Gimli, draining the last of his beer and smacking the mug down on the counter. “Not that they hate these things like orcs do, but they are happier with depictions of them, lit by wondrous lights in their deep halls, than to go marching abroad under the hot sun.”

“It sounds to me, then,” I said, “that King Thranduil (with all due respect, Legolas) was anything but merciful. And in less than fifty years Gladlas was dead. It is a short lifespan for an elf. I suppose she did die naturally?”

“They say she died of poison,” Goldberry murmured.

“That I can neither confirm nor deny,” said Legolas. “She had visitors. Morfindel went often to see his mother. She could have sent out for poison by him, if she’d had a mind to. If she was poisoned, then it was not by the hands of her captors. I would swear to it, even if they were not my own people.”

“What was Morfindel’s opinion of his mother’s treatment?”

“He deplored it! But he was not alone in that. Had she not died, I can well believe that he would have prevailed upon King Elessar to intercede with my father for her release. But then again, had she not died, King Elessar might never have heard about it – and so been prompted to send for the pitiable orphan.”

“How did Morfindel himself fare in earlier years?”

“Oh, as a baby he was pampered and cosseted. Nobody felt he deserved any sort of punishment and he was such a beautiful child he was an instant favourite at court. He had his own elf nursemaid and enjoyed the upbringing of a prince. When he was young, too young perhaps to understand, he seemed to have shown little regard for his mother, whom he was taken regularly to visit. These visits must have seemed to him dismal and tedious.”

Legolas sighed. “To be dragged from the bright woods deep underground, to see a sad lady in a room bereft of courtly furnishings, is not something to appeal to a child. He was said to dread those visits. But as he grew to manhood he began to take his mother’s part. Maybe she was able to tell him how he came to be, and sundry other things about his father. Things which nobody else knew, nor cared to.”

“What was his opinion of his father?”

“Oh, we used often to talk about it here in the Oliphaunt, didn’t we, Gimli? He would go on at great length about how ill-judged his father was. He, Gollum, had been the true Ring-bearer! When it came to the final test, Gollum it was who had achieved that which Frodo ultimately proved unable to carry out.”

“It sounds to me as if he inherited his father’s snivelling attitude to life!”

“Not at all! It was the father whom he had never met he was sorry for, not himself. It was hard not to like Morfindel. Self-pity was the last thing you could accuse him of. He was always extremely pleased with himself, finding nothing there to pity. Apart from King Elessar, Gladlas, Bilbo, Frodo and Sam, and of course the elf guards, all dead, nobody I know ever got that close to Gollum – certainly not to live with him, day-in, day-out. Those who have done so report it to have been a most disagreeable experience. But we knew Morfindel well, Gimli and I. And to judge from Gollum’s repute, Morfindel seems to have been the exact opposite of his deeply despised father. As I’ve said, it was impossible not to like him.”

“I must disagree. I have met many people these last few days who disliked him intensely. From the things they’ve had to tell me – they had good reason!” I glanced aside at Goldberry, who said nothing.

Legolas prodded my arm with his finger. “They tell you that, now he’s gone! But when they were face-to-face with him, I’ll wager they were charmed by him. Even those who had their misgivings. And maybe when Morfindel went away again, they hated themselves for being so compliant.”

“Grishnakh detested him cordially.”

“Oh, that I can believe! The King often employed Morfindel as an emissary to East Ithilien, on account of his capacity to soothe the savage breast. He used to order the officials of the Mandate around something shocking. And the company he kept over there in East Ithilien would have quickly brought him to the unfavourable attention of GUB.”

“What does GUB stand for? Nobody has ever been able to tell me. Or cared to.”

“And I do not care to tell you either,” snorted Legolas. “It’s an acronym in the Black Speech. Ask Gimli. Gimli knows it – he talks to these people. Whenever the dwarves want mining work done on the cheap nowadays, they use orc-labour.”

“Not when I have anything to do with it!” protested Gimli. “It’s one of the quarrels I have with my contractors over the Glittering Caves Project. But if you must know, GUB is short for _Ghâsh-hai Ulîmob Burgûlum-ishi_. Police – throne – shadows-in. Or as they themselves render it in the Westron: the Royal Secret Police. The word for policemen is the same as the word for firemen – you have to be able to look after yourself when you’re putting out fires in Udûn. They never start by accident.”

I laughed as I beckoned to the barman for another round of drinks. “I’ll try that out on Grishnakh when next I see him,” I said. “You don’t mind me quoting you, do you?”

Gimli waved his hand briskly. “Feel free! – feel free!”

“You said something about the company Morfindel kept. Did you have anyone particular in mind?”

“Criminals – gangsters – he was on drinking terms with the most notorious characters you can imagine,” said Gimli. “They’re not short of such people in Doom City. Thanks to the proximity of the Dark Cesspool – Bagronkbûrz in their language – not to mention Mount Doom – Doom City, or Dûmpgoi you’ll hear it called, will never be anything but a place of ill-repute. But I don’t think Morfindel went around seeking criminals as such. Anybody and everybody in a position of power was somebody Morfindel wanted to explore, to see if they could be useful to him.”

“Did he ‘explore’ you?”

“Yes, all the time. He was always here in the Oliphaunt, buying us drinks and telling us his latest scheme. We used to wind him up shamelessly! But he never appeared to resent it.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” interposed Gimli. “The things he could obtain for you! He knew the source of just about everything valuable. Now there’s not much I can’t lay my hands on, once I’m able to get a message back to Erebor. But Morfindel was much closer to hand. Special tools, special materials, no end of mithril...”

“Do you think he had a darker purpose in all his wheeling and dealing? Such as accumulating funds for purchasing dangerous things... forbidden things?”

“You’re talking as if he went around plotting with all-and-sundry,” said Legolas. “None of the dealings I knew about were what I’d call ‘dark’. He didn’t seem to care who knew. If only you could have heard him while he held forth in here...”

“For my part I am in little doubt that he bought and sold in order to buy and sell other things,” said Gimli. “If you had asked him why he wanted to deal in such-and-such a thing he’d tell you. He always liked an audience for his latest project. And some of them were hilarious! Quite illegal of course, but that’s what made it so funny.”

“Morfindel took the attitude,” said Legolas, “ ‘I’m the King’s favourite. Nobody can touch me. I do exactly what I please. And that makes me such a big fellow, I’m very desirable to know.’ He was in nobody’s debt.”

“But might he not have been plotting secretly, all the same? Might he not have been plotting _revenge_...?”

“Revenge – for what?” said Legolas.”

“For the treatment of his mother and father. For the vindication of his mother – and his father, if it comes to that.”

Legolas leaned on the bar with his finger to his cheek, his eyes turned up beneath his eyebrows. “No. If he had been planning revenge I’m sure we would have heard all about it. In great and tedious detail, like the people unfortunate enough to have been close to his father. No, it never occurred to him that they needed avenging. I think he would have said that they were dead and didn’t care now.”

“Yet you said he deplored his mother’s treatment.”

“Yes. But his answer to that was to seek ways to a better world, in which that sort of thing wouldn’t happen. ‘When I am King...’ he used to say.”

Gimli laughed. “That was one of his favourite expressions. ‘When I am King.’ All the wonderful things he was going to do when he was King.”

“When he said that, might he actually have _meant_ it?”

“No,” snorted Legolas.

“Yes,” contradicted Gimli. “But not in the literal sense. He never had a bad word to say about Aragorn – I mean – the King.”

“He was always saying what a good and kind man the King was. What a magnificent man! What a virile man! He could never have intended his master... any harm.”

I toyed with my drink. “Someone put their theory to me the other day,” I said, “of what Morfindel would have done if he had got hold of a magic ring.”

Gimli barked with laughter. “Kill the King and marry the Queen, like in the old story.” That made me look round cautiously. Was anybody listening to what we were saying?

“Yes,” admitted Legolas, “that sounds like our Morfindel.”

“And did it not occur to you how dangerous it was, going round saying things like that?”

“He was always saying things like that! He was the Court Jester!”

I began to understand him more and more. And the King. “So what you are saying is: he didn’t care what he did – and didn’t care who knew it?”

Legolas paused at length before answering. “Yes... that’s a pretty fair assessment. Perhaps Morfindel was like his father in this: if he wanted anything he didn’t see why it mightn’t be right to have it. Right by definition. Perhaps he would have made a very good king...”

“Legolas!” I reproached him, “you’re in your cups! If anyone is listening to us, that could be construed as treasonable talk.”

“Well, so long as Bergil is not drinking in the same bar I don’t think anyone’s going to take exception here. Least of all Aragorn, were he to hear it. There is nothing that Morfindel said in here which he wouldn’t have said in front of the King.”

“And often did, they say at court,” added Gimli.

“When I surmise that he would have made a good king,” said Legolas, “I mean that he knew everybody, knew their strengths and weaknesses, knew how to get the best out of them. He was well-liked, although maybe one ought not to say: well-respected. But how many of the kings of old were honoured simply because they were King?”

“So you’d have been happy to have him as King?”

Legolas and Gimli looked at each other.

“Son of Gandalf! ” replied Gimli. “If you’re asking us what we think personally, then I say this. We have a perfectly good King. The best it is possible to have! Why would anyone want to replace him with one who, after all, was a loudmouth and a braggart?”

“Harsh words, Gimli,” murmured Legolas.

“But are they true words – or are they not, Master Legolas?”

Legolas lowered his head. “True words. From the depth of my heart I say: true words. But ever this heart of mine is eased by such a one who makes light of life. Whose mind is like a will-o’-the-wisp, ever darting from one thing to another, never still, never full of care, never reflective. Leave that to the Galadhrim. Leave that to the High Elves! The Wood Folk were ever at their happiest feasting and dancing in sunny glades among the trees.”

“Can I take you up on something you just said, Gimli?”

“What, Master Goss?” I noticed his nose was glowing red for danger.

“You said just now: ‘the best it is possible to have.’”

Gimli stood up to his full height and puffed out his chest. “Yes and I will say it again. The best it is possible to have! Must I go for my axe, to defend that remark?”

I closed my eyes and waved my hand. “Gimli, Gimli, that won’t be necessary. You’re talking to a man on the King’s business.”

“Well, Mr King’s Business, who is talking treasonable talk now?”

“If I did not anticipate the treasonable talk of others I would not be a good investigator. But I’m not trying to provoke you, dear Gimli. I am merely trying to say this. Imagine that there are people who think that Aragorn, who is personally dear to all four of us, is not the best of all possible kings. And I am not proposing Master Morfindel in his place, for at this moment Morfindel lies...”

I checked myself and looked around. I had felt it necessary to tell the truth of the matter to Legolas and Gimli, but I didn’t want it uttered out loud in the Oliphaunt and I was certainly not going to utter it out loud myself.

Legolas laid a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. Gimli calmed down and so did his nose. “Pray pardon me, Master Goss. But please explain this. Who could possibly think the King to be lacking in any way...?”

“Someone,” I said, “who is impatient for an heir to the throne!”

The four of us sat in silence for a very long time. Eventually Legolas said, “It is indeed a matter of concern to our people – to all good people – that Queen Arwen has not presented the King with an heir. It could in time be the very seed of disorder...”

“So what then are we to make of Morfindel’s outrageous proposal?” I asked. “It was Gimli who said it, not I. ‘Kill the King and marry the Queen’. Let me ask you this: has Morfindel, or has he not, been searching far and wide for rings of Power?”

“Not noticeably,” said Gimli. “We dwarves are always on the search for rings of Power, but we are looking for the dwarf rings of old. They are ours – and we want them back!”

“With all due respect, Gimli, perhaps that makes you less sensitive than others to the presence of someone on the lookout for rings. Particularly someone who has actually voiced out aloud what he would do with it if he had one.”

“But only in principle!” protested Legolas. Yet his face betrayed that he was no longer in sympathy with the very sympathy for Morfindel he had earlier expressed.

“It is not my theory. It is the theory of someone in a position to – I mean – with good cause to know.” I didn’t want to mention Arwen by name.

“Then,” said Gimli, “when you use the word _plot_ , you must mean precisely what you say...?”

“If there exist people who take Morfindel seriously... (and is there anyone who takes him lightly, so as not to believe that he said what he thought – and did what he said?) ...if there exist such people, then I have not the slightest doubt there is a plot.”

“A plot,” mused Gimli, “that has not died with his death?”

“That is precisely what I fear.”

“Yet maybe too there exist people who would do anything in their power to thwart such a plot,” countered Gimli. “Maybe you need to look no further than such people for Morfindel’s murderer.”

“Such a thing _has_ occurred to me,” I said. “And not just to me. This too has occurred to me. What a shame it would be if the very people who, for love of the King, undertook to foil a plot against his life by killing the chief plotter, were themselves to die for treason at the Stake – the treason of killing the Ward of the King.”

Gimli shrugged. “Duty must be done,” he said. “And the Law is the Law! Else for what counts the King’s Protection?”

“Yet my heart goes out to such a one!” exclaimed Legolas.

 

 

 

That afternoon, Saturday the Sixth of May, I borrowed ponies and a wain from Gimli, plus the trappings of a merchant. Gimli had a good store of Longbottom pipe-weed and several crates of choice wine from the marches of the Shire in his ample cellars. I gave him an IOU for it all, redeemable by the Royal Treasury should I fail to return for whatever reason. We deemed it a goodly merchandise to be taking to Doom City, but not one that was altogether irreplaceable. I needed no wain to bear the real burden, which was of course the fake Angrennan, that I proposed to sell to my host.

Goldberry begged to accompany me. After all, she said, the invitation was indeed for a couple to stay at Hotel Doom. But despite my initial enthusiasm I was hesitant, not for myself, for I was nothing if not eager for her company. But I was concerned for her safety, for would we not be going open-eyed into danger? Yet to have turned up on my own would have looked over-wary. Curmudgeonly. Goldberry, to put it mildly, had suffered worse company in Minas Ithil. Though maybe not so much worse. Anyway – Hotel Doom was legendary for its fine food and comforts – and that was not to be missed for worlds.

Whether we should stay for the whole three days was something I had to think about. Something else Legolas had told me was weighing on my mind, urging me to make haste in getting to Mount Doom and back again. It seemed that the ent Quickbeam, Master of Isengard since Treebeard had departed eastwards on his ill-fated mission, had sold the Tower of Orthanc, which stood like a natural spire of jagged rock in the centre of the Ring of Isengard, to Morfindel. It was of little interest to Quickbeam himself, since ents have no use for the abodes of men, and little need for a fastness, no matter how impregnable. His chief concern had been to hold it in the King’s name. Not to let it fall into the hands of bandits, rebels, or others inimical to the Throne, since once in there, short of a costly and interminable siege, it would be well nigh impossible to get them out.

Morfindel’s credentials on the other hand had been impressive. Quickbeam had seen no reason not to make over the fortress to him. Morfindel had then approached dwarf locksmiths to have the fortifications checked and secured once again to standards of the utmost rigour. Then he had commissioned elf wrights to have it furnished sumptuously – fit for a Queen, it was rumoured. All this had been accomplished. For what possible reason I couldn’t imagine.

Or could I?

Orthanc stood empty and waiting. Not for long – that was for sure. Maybe my journey to Mount Doom would teach me much about whatever plot was in the making. I hoped so. But were it not to be, then I would be ill-advised to tarry on the way.

 

 

 

I planned to journey through the grim territory of the Mandate by the sole wain-road, the one which passed through the dismal dale of the Morannon, between the ruined Towers of the Teeth, where I had gone five days ago, bearing Morfindel’s head in a jar. Secretly I sent word on ahead to Grishnakh.

By mid-afternoon we were ready and we clattered out of Gimli’s driveway and found ourselves at Minas Ithil before nightfall. We didn’t enter the City itself, having all the supplies we needed. Instead we rode a little way north under the evening sky towards Henneth Annûn and camped that night by a gushing stream that tumbled in a torrent beneath a charming little hump-backed bridge. It would take us all the next day, and most of the day after, to get within sight of the Morannon, a hundred miles to the north. I planned to arrive at the Towers of the Teeth by daybreak on Tuesday. On our way we would pass Henneth Annûn. Since we were travelling as Master and Mistress Overdale, we thought it prudent not to show our faces there, but to drive straight on.

The day dawned to clear spring skies and the birds sang as if the world had only just been made. Goldberry reclined naked on a wide flat rock just out of the waterfall’s reach, droplets pattering on her shoulders in an aura of spray. She had fashioned a garland for her brow of ivy leaves, which lessened the starkness of her shaven head, something I still couldn’t quite get used to. But as I sat on the bank of the stream with my feet in the water, gazing at her, I felt anew the pangs of boyhood love.

“Goldie,” I mooned, “if I sit here looking at you much longer, I’m suddenly going to get up and rush round gathering you buckets of water lilies!”

She lowered her chin to her shoulder and regarded me reproachfully with her blue-grey eyes. “It’s ‘Goldberry’ – or ‘Gee’, if we are in strange company,” she said. “I love my beautiful name! I don’t like it bent like a piece of metal.”

I was sorry the moment I said it. I made myself a vow that I would never again recall Tom to her mind.

Soon the sun came up, beaming out all of a sudden over fragments of far-away cloud, and the world was bright and jolly and moist with dew. But alas, it was time for us to be moving on.

The road from Minas Ithil winds north beneath the Ephel Duath through some of the loveliest countryside I know. The best time to see it is in spring, and I was much aggrieved that the pair of us could not spend a week on our journey to the Morannon, rather than the two days we were planning on, provided the going was good. It was not until you reached Henneth Annûn that the road became wide and paved. Here it was little more than two parallel ruts, muddy and stony by turns, so we travelled at no more than walking pace. We would not be making good enough progress unless we were well past Henneth Annûn by nightfall.

But the dawn of the second day found us well on our way. It had grown colder during the night and the sky was overcast, the sun hiding her face from us during the whole of that day. But as we reminded ourselves, in springtime changeable weather was only to be expected. By nightfall the forested slopes and tumbling glens of Ithilien were starting to give way to bare rock, bog and heather moorland, as we drew nigh unto the Land of Shadows.

We were now but a few miles south of the Morannon. Nestling in the shelter of a cleft just off the road, we pitched our last camp. These were unsafe lands! So with much regret we abstained from sleeping in each others’ arms, but took four-hourly spells at keeping watch. When the gibbous Moon began to descend from his zenith towards the western hills, then I knew it was time to break camp and be on our way, if we were to arrive at the Morannon by daybreak.  



	11. The Road to Orodruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

We were just making ready to stop in the courtyard of the South Tower when a long-armed orc, shrouded in a cloak that hid his features, caught hold of the side of the wain and clambered up beside me. It was Grishnakh – he had been waiting for us. Goldberry, sitting the other side of me, shrank back instinctively.

“Excuse the lack of ceremony,” he said, “but you’re being watched! It wouldn’t do to be seen reporting in at the Tower. Pull round to the Teeth Inn. You know it – we’ve been there. Turn left at the blockhouse. At the crossroads I’ll get off. Follow me as inconspicuously as you can. And, er, Miss Gee...”

Goldberry flinched at this sudden transfer of attention. “Oh yes... I know who you are,” said Grishnakh. “I think you’d better stay in the wain. It’s not a good idea to leave anything unattended around these parts. Especially so valuable a cargo...” His laugh was like a brick going through a window.

At the crossroads he dropped to the ground running, not waiting for us to halt. I did as he said and pulled into the courtyard of the inn. I handed the reins to Goldberry and gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek.

“Chin up, pet, I won’t be long. Put your hood up so that nobody can see who you are. Or _what_ you are. If there’s any trouble, hit the triangle behind you. We’ll drop everything and come running.”

I got down from the wain and followed after Grishnakh. He was walking slowly towards the yellow blockhouse, deliberately not looking back. I was careful not to catch him up, or even appear to walk after him. I reached the blockhouse by a roundabout route and mounted the creaky stairs.

There was someone else beside Grishnakh in his office, a young orc who smiled at me nervously. “Come in, Goss,” said Grishnakh. “I want you to meet Ratbog. One of my best men. He’ll be at Hotel Doom with you to keep an eye on you and make sure nothing untoward happens.”

“Thank you,” I said doubtfully, “but isn’t it going to look a little suspicious if he’s with us when we meet up with Grimwald?”

“No, he’s not going to do that. He’s going to remain very much in the background, aren’t you Ratbog? In fact you are both going to act as if you don’t know each other.”

I didn’t know whether to be grateful or not, but I felt it politic to give the impression of being so. “Pleased to meet you, Ratbog,” I said and held out my hand. He didn’t take it, but did a short stiff bow, breaking into a wide grin.

“What happens if there is trouble and Ratbog’s not able to handle it on his own? How is he going to summon help?”

“Ratbog is stronger than he looks,” maintained Grishnakh. “He was junior champion of the Dirty Fighting League, two years ago now, wasn’t it?” The young orc nodded rapidly. “But you’re both going to summon help like this.”

Grishnakh dropped two small objects into our hands. I looked closely at mine. It was a functional finger-ring of leaden metal, with a clear hemisphere on top. Something was twinkling in the heart of it.

“Mobile palantíri,” said Grishnakh. “Latest thing out of Dale. Don’t lose them – they’re expensive.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “But not half as expensive as a classic palantír, eh? Ha-ha.”

“So it’s a palantír – and a ring too? This is going to get me frightfully confused...”  
“Yes it’s a ring too. A pretty powerful toy, eh? But it won’t make you invisible.” He gave me a knowing leer. Ratbog pretended not to listen. He was obviously used to his superiors making in-jokes to each other.

“Of course you can’t be sure who else is watching-in. So maintain palantír silence – unless it’s an emergency.”

“I really appreciate this, Grishnakh,” I said, and this time I meant it. But he waved his hand. “If we can nail the Grimwald Gang over this business, it’ll be a feather in our collective cap.”

I put the ring on my right hand. I wondered how Narya would get on with it. I had my answer quick enough – badly! Both rings started getting hotter and hotter, not to mention setting up an unbearable itching in my finger. Quickly I pulled off the mobile palantír and put it on the other hand. I was wearing Nenya round my neck. I had reasoned that wearing both elf-rings doubled the chance of them being noticed.

“Is Ratbog going to come with us in the wain? If so he’d better stay out of sight.”

“It might be better if Miss Gee stays out of sight instead and Ratbog drives the cart. He does at least know the way. Do you?”

“To the summit of Mount Doom? It’s pretty hard to miss.”

“But the correct road to get there across the lava field is not hard to miss. I’d advise you to let Ratbog drive. Well chaps, best of luck.” Grishnakh held out a hand to each of us, but Ratbog gave the orc-salute and turned smartly on his heel. “And, er... _Gâkh bûbi narkû gimbubut lat!_ As we say: may the swine never rumble you!”

As Ratbog strode on ahead through the doorway and his feet started stomping heavily down the stairs, Grishnakh pulled me towards him and muttered in my ear.

“Keep an eye on that girl you’ve brought along. She’s not what she seems!”

“Gee? She’s all right. I know her from way back.” I scanned Grishnakh’s features, thinking it was just a matter of orcish suspicion of forest nymphs, but he seemed genuinely and explicitly concerned.

“I know who she is,” he replied. “We’ve been watching _Miss_ Gee Aelvsson in Minas Ithil for some time now. Or should I say _Mistress Bombadil_?”

“Weren’t you going a bit outside your territory? I mean, Minas Ithil is not within the Mandate.”

“I know. But there’s still a lot of orcs living there. We’re looking after our own people, if you like to think of it that way.”

“Why? Surely Faramir’s rangers can do that?”

“Since when did an orc ever get fair treatment from a tark?”

“Now look here. I know Faramir well and...”

“Never mind about that. It’s what the orcs believe that’s important.”

I was annoyed that Grishnakh had been watching Goldberry, not to mention straying outside his jurisdiction to do it. “If you’ve got anything on Goldberry – Gee, I mean – you’d better come out with it. What do you know about her that I don’t?”

“Consorting with your late friend and mine? Isn’t that enough? ...For starters?”

“She told me about it.”

“ _All_ about it?”

I was beginning to get hot under the collar. It occurred to me the story of her ill-treatment at the hands of Morfindel and his pals might have circulated a fair bit. “All I _want_ to know, thank you.”

“It’s you I’m thinking of. It doesn’t escape notice that you’re keen on her.” He suddenly became aware that his lion breath was oppressing me and he lengthened his arm with a small grim smile.

“So what?” I retorted. “I don’t expect you to understand, not for one moment.” That made him laugh. But he still didn’t let go my hand. I added, “Do you think it’s clouding my judgement? Me – one of the most cynical of men?”

But he gripped my hand all the firmer and shook my shoulder slowly. “I don’t want to look as if I’m interfering,” he said. “But you just watch that girl – eh? I’d hate anything to happen to you.”

He forced a cut-glass chuckle and let go of my hand. “We narks ought to stick together,” he added.

 

 

 

I was nearly back at the inn when I heard the triangle being banged. I broke into a run and found Goldberry fighting with Ratbog in the driving seat. Correction: Goldberry was fighting and Ratbog was doing his best to fend her off. “Shush!” he was saying. “Shush!”

I jumped up onto the wheel and thrust myself in between them, getting an elbow in the eye for my pains. “Cut it out, you two,” I shouted. Both of them sat bolt upright like scolded children. I peered anxiously round the fringe of my hood to see who might be watching.

“Well, that’s drawn attention to us, if anything was needed,” I observed acidly. Then I thought to revise my approach. “I’m sorry... I should have been here to introduce you. Gee – this is Ratbog. Ratbog – this is my partner, er, companion, Gee.”

“What have we got an orc with us for?”

Ratbog sniffed. “You just have to put up with what you can get.”

“Ratbog, I’m sorry...” I said. “Forgive Gee – she was just a little taken aback, that’s all.” I gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Let’s be on our way,” I said, taking the reins out of Goldberry’s hands and giving them to Ratbog. Then as the wain lurched into motion I grabbed Goldberry by the shoulders and tumbled us both back onto the sacking in the covered part behind us. I put my hand over her mouth as she tried to protest.

“Ratbog’s a GUB agent,” I half-whispered, half-snarled in her ear. “Grishnakh’s lent him to us. Once we’re at Hotel Doom he’s going to mingle with the crowd and keep an eye on us from a distance.”

“Oh. Big deal!”

“Look, pet, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“With help like that, who needs hindrance?”

“Be sensible! It could have happened to anyone. I want you two to get on.” I looked at Ratbog, who had his back to us and was expertly reversing the ponies out of the yard onto the rutted road. I noticed orc-blood like melted pitch trickling down the side of his neck.

“Why is he bleeding?”

“Because I hit him over the head with the triangle clapper,” Goldberry snapped at me.

“Oh! Really!” I snapped back.

“Well, how was I to know he belonged to us? Why didn’t you two come back together?”

“I’m sorry! Grishnakh had something to say to me in private.” But of course I didn’t want to tell her what it was.

 

 

 

The Vale of Udûn is one of those landscapes where you just know you’re on the point of waking up in pitch darkness, sweating and mooing like an ox cart going up a steep, steep hill, but you don’t quite seem to manage it. Oblong brown buildings with black gaping windows and skeletal fire-escapes are strewn all over the place like children’s blocks, facing all ways. The slopes of the Ash Mountains are riddled with holes and cracks and mine shafts. Rounding a corner, one comes suddenly on frowning cliffs of quarries, mostly abandoned, but some still being worked in noise and dust. The crump of blasting fire periodically rends the air, which tastes of garbage and marsh-gas, bitter ash and filth.

Tall chimneys, festooned with curly pipes like tree snakes, belch forth flames and fumes and smoke in just about every colour from bright orange to dirty green. Skeins of rusty pipes snake hither and thither, crossing the road in square arches, crawling up what are not so much buildings as mad scientific experiments and plunging into wide muddy trenches. Channels and sewers, adits and run-offs, score the land like a vanquished warrior hewn where he lies. Every now and then the road picks its way over one of these festering gashes on a rickety bridge.

“However do they get trees to grow here?” asked Goldberry.

“They don’t.”

“Look over there, then.”

Sure enough, there was a line of leafless poplars flanking a canal deep in rubbish. “They’re dead,” I said.

“No they’re not. I can feel them. They’re in dreadful pain, but they’re not dead.”

I thought to myself: by the Cracks of Doom! We’re into May now and there’s no sign of leaves on the poor things! “Spring comes late to Mordor,” I observed out loud.

“The Royal Mandate of East Ithilien,” Goldberry corrected me. “That’s a forbidden word you just said.”

“I’m sorry – it was. I really will have to get used to it.”  
Throughout our conversation, Ratbog had uttered never a word. He just sat in front of us on the cross-plank, holding the reins and looking stolidly ahead. I had tried to bathe the wound on his scalp but he waved aside my efforts and took out a large yellow bandage, from which he tore off something like a scab. He smacked the bandage on his head and it fizzled and smoked for a second before settling down to bubbling quietly like a pat of butter melting in the pan. But it certainly stemmed the bleeding. Since then he hadn’t spoken a word, simply getting on with the driving.

Soon the hills drew together and we arrived at the Isenmouthe, Carach Angren of old. There still is an iron gate there and what’s more it is a toll gate. An orc shambled out of the sentry box and demanded five crowns. Ratbog showed his GUB identification and the orc shrugged and went away. The gate opened with a grinding sound.

“Listen, Ratbog, if there are any more tolls to pay, let me pay them. I don’t want to draw more attention to us than I have to.”

“What do you want to throw your money away for? I know the gate-keeper.”

Once through the Isenmouthe, we passed by a hoarding which proclaimed: _You are entering Frodo and Sam country._ Ratbog snorted. “Commercialisation is everywhere.”

But in reality the Isenmouthe gate was serving a good purpose, preventing an urban sprawl like grisly ectoplasm from reaching its fingers down the road towards Dûmpgoi – Doom City. Overcrowded though Udûn was, no resident in his right mind would go building a house the other side of the gate if it meant paying five crowns just to travel to and fro to get to work. The denizens of the Mandate had fought long and hard to make Gorgoroth a Park of the Realm, with all the public funds that accrued to the designation. Planning restrictions were severe. To build even a pigeon shed the other side of the gate was punishable by quartering, but that would have been of little deterrence to the sullen inhabitants of Udûn. Having to pay five crowns each way definitely was.

 

 

 

After trekking through Udûn, the Plateau of Gorgoroth comes almost as a relief. It has a kind of hideous beauty all of its own. To the left of the Isenmouthe, the pleated flanks of the Ered Lithui, the Ash Mountains, staggered away into a grey-green haze. Away to the right I saw the looming massif of the Ephel Duath, dark and smoky against the afternoon sky, its feet dropping away sheer into the tumbled glens of the Morgai. Looking back to where that dread valley petered out in cracks in the crumbling mountainside I could see Castle Durthang, now derelict, standing above the southern spur of the Isenmouthe like an admonishing finger. A fitful attempt at afforestation was in evidence. Even at that distance I could see that most of the trees were dead. They raised their splintered stumps in attitudes of hopeless appeal to an unfeeling sky.

The plain which opened before us was a lava field, bubbled and smeared into torn rags like brown dough. Ragged pieces of flat stone lay strewn about, burnt red and iridescent purple like clinker, each a miniature contour map of flaky layers. The land buckled and twisted like an unmade bed, a forty-eight year-old testament to the night of sleepless savagery which had ended the Third Age. Cut through the lava, trenched in places, banked in others, a road of crushed and graded pumice wound in the general direction of Orodruin – Mount Doom – a riven heap sprouting precipitously out of the plain.

A stunning location for a luxury hotel!

Nothing was visible of Hotel Doom from this distance, unless it was a glint of glass or polished marble that sprang out for a moment as the sun felt through a crack in the drear canopy. A caravan of small clouds, spawned on the dire summit of the volcano, marched away south-east like a plume of smoke, to gather in a vast bank of cumulus over the whereabouts of the Sea of Núrnen. It looked for all the world as if Orodruin were on fire once more.

But the mountain had been dormant this past half-century. I crossed my fingers it would remain so tonight.  



	12. Hotel Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

It was late afternoon and the sun was going down behind the Ephel Duath as our wain clattered into Doom City.

In the last twenty years, a new city had grown up on the north side of Mount Doom. It sprawled almost to the ragged shores of Bagronkbûrz, the vast greasy black lake of poisonous water which drowns the site of the Dark Tower.

The volcano itself was out in the countryside, if countryside it could be called. During the reign of Sauron, good roads had been maintained between the Dark Tower and Mount Doom. But after the mountain had erupted for the last time, no further roads had been built on it and it had been preserved ever since as a natural monument. However the guardians of Gorgoroth Park had had no problem with granting a licence for a luxury hotel to be built on the very summit of Mount Doom. That was where Grimwald Uruksson had invited us to dine with him that very evening.

Ratbog dropped us at the foot of the mountain, together with our baggage, and drove the wain away to some police lockup in Doom City. Unless you wanted to clamber up the sharp, treacherous scree of crumbled pumice to the hotel, the only way to reach it was by the ropeway.

In a crisp modern building of black rough-hewn timber and whitewashed walls at the foot of Mount Doom a large treadmill was kept turning by the pacing of scores of feet and this wound an endless stream of cars up the side of the volcano. Each hung by a single hooked strut from clamps on the rope, as it rumbled over the pulley wheels of pylons which stalked like skeletal black trolls up the mountainside. Part of the hotel’s exclusive appeal was how inaccessible it was on foot and how safe the residents could feel themselves from the depredations of the cut-throats and ruffians who lived in Doom City.

A smiling concierge looked down a list for our names and checked them off. Then she ushered us towards the open door of one of the cars, waiting on its platform to be clipped to the rope. Soon we were on our way, swinging and bobbing over the black scree of the mountain’s flank. Goldberry, who had never been this high off the ground in her life, clutched my arm like a falcon. I wondered what sort of dangerous leap would be necessary at the other end to get us off this cable-car, but I needn’t have worried. Had we been fat and elderly burghers or matrons, as so many of the hotel’s guests were, we couldn’t have found it easier to step down from the car at the other end, safe from the wind inside the shelter built around the lofty platform.

From there it was a short distance up an easy flight of stairs cut in the floor of a tunnel carved through the foamed lava, before we stood in the foyer, amid displays of coloured pebbles and sand, potted palms and other spiky plants of the southern desert. A fountain lit by fires of red and green danced to quiet music, artificial springs trickled from make-believe cliffs and guests wandered around in carpet slippers and white bathrobes (if that!), going to and from the spa.

“Master and Mistress Overdale,” announced the receptionist and the bell hop scurried to collect our bags and take them to our room. Not until then did we lose our glazed look and begin to cast around wide-eyed at our surroundings.

From our window we could see westwards across the fearsomely beautiful Plateau of Gorgoroth, back down the winding road along which we’d come. As the sun went down, the sky glowed dully like a forge, outlining the jagged hills. Outside our window, an orc janitor poured a bucket of water into a stovepipe sunk below the lava crust. A few seconds later it exploded with a deafening _shtoom!_ – announcing the hour of sunset. A column of steamy spray leapt up and caught the last of the sun’s dying rays. A yard below the tepid crust, Mount Doom was still very much alive.

The room was panelled in varnished pine and hung with carpets and tapestries woven by the shepherd people of the eastern plains, together with goat skins, grey, dark brown and white. A pile of rosy apples and pears lay upon an earthenware platter on a side-table. Selecting a pear, Goldberry nibbled it thoughtfully.

“This doesn’t look like orc fare,” she observed.

“Indeed no! Men, dwarves and even elves, come from all over Middle Earth to stay at Hotel Doom, to take the waters and enjoy the exotic cuisine.”

“Why, what water is there here you’d dare to drink?”

“Much water and highly prized. It pumps itself up under its own pressure from deep underground. It pours steaming and sulphurous into artificial lagoons where the guests bathe in it and ease away their aches and pains.” I’d read the brochure. “There’s time for a dip before dinner if you’d care for one?”

Goldberry shuddered at the idea. “I shall come and see it, just for the experience. But I won’t pollute myself by contact with foul rock-waters. I shall sit at the side of the pool and watch you.”

 

 

 

In the end we explored our suite instead. The bed was huge, soft and circular. A vast round quilt lay in the centre. You could have fitted a dozen people in that bed, touching toes like the spokes of a wheel, but really it was designed for two people to lounge about in as they fancied. If you didn’t want to lie snug beneath the quilt, there was a pile of snakes of fleece or feather, so you could cover your beloved completely to keep her warm and still kiss her unhindered, from the bridge of her nose to the tips of her toes.

If we thought the bedroom opulent it was because we hadn’t yet seen the bathroom. A miniature spa in itself, its walls and partitions were of marble in every colour you could think of, mostly icy green, inky black or snowy white, both polished and rough-hewn. Curtains of artificial stalactites hung down to divide the room, their glistening surfaces studded with sparkling gems.

The floor-level bath was deep and mysterious, like a floppy cloverleaf in shape, comfortably taking four people in any position they’d care to recline. It was filled by a waterfall of clear warm water which was made to pour by pulling on a tasselled rope. We lost no time in throwing off our clothes and filling the bath and as I sat under the waterfall, Goldberry knelt in foam to the tops of her thighs, inspecting the contents of the scores of flagons and flasks which gathered in tiny lit-up grottoes, or nestled between the stalagmites.

There were essences and extracts of herbs and spices to pour into the gushing waterfall. No end of rose-water. Ointments, lyes and unguents of every familiar flavour and savour, and not a few unusual ones, from the light floral scents, beloved of elves, to heavy black sludges of sandalwood and dander, musk and molasses, which the orcs loved to rub on themselves – at least those that didn’t go in for cruder natural products.

Eventually Goldberry selected an iridescent swan-neck flask of some sort of river weed extract, which she demanded to be rubbed with. So, kneeling up in the steaming water, I did that, taking my time. Then I poured clear warm water from a silver ewer over her shoulders, making sure she was properly rinsed down in all the cusps and cracks.

“What a pity,” I said, “that we’re having only three nights here rather than three weeks. In that time we could really get to know each other.”

Goldberry pouted. “I imagine you’d get bored and want to go off camping.”

“Well, we could do that afterwards. Just you and me and one sleeping bag. I say, do you think there’s time for a quick lie-down on the bed before dinner?”

“Didn’t the message say to meet Grimwald in the restaurant two hours after sunset? It’s an hour since that stovepipe went ‘boom’ and we still have to dress for dinner. What’s wrong with staying in the bath? Are you tired or something?”

 

 

 

Soon it was time to put on our bathrobes and go and get dressed up for dinner.

One of the things about a first-class hotel in this new age is the service. The Prancing Pony was never like this! No longer a jug of ale, a desultory chat with strangers before a log fire, finally to turn in to some scruffy room which caters for travel-stained wanderers. We were expected to dress for dinner – and Grimwald Uruksson, one of the richest men in Middle Earth, was footing the bill.

Servants came up and measured me for a dinner-jacket. The conventional sort of dinner-jacket in Hotel Doom was bright red twill with purple velvet lapels, a shiny black belt with a gilded buckle, butter yellow leggings and soft black suede thigh boots which came to a point in front. They gave you a three-cornered hat to carry too, trimmed with two bushy white plumes.

A small army of seamstresses attended Goldberry. A simple woodland nymph, she wasn’t used to all this attention and stood there with an expression of dismay and embarrassment while they fussed around her. They measured her, tried bolts of the finest fabrics up against her, draped and pinned and snipped and stitched, chattering animatedly and approvingly about her fine figure and perfect measurements, and soon had her fitted with a made-to-measure dress which the finest couturier in Minas Tirith would have found hard to match.

Goldberry had scarcely budged since they began and now they retired, leaving her poised like a statue. I gaped and let out a long low whistle. Goldberry batted the lashes of her blue-grey eyes at me in demure discomposure, but really I couldn’t help it. From something in the nature of a forest fantasy they had turned her into a wicked temptation. It was a good job the weather was warm and the restaurant was likely to be warmer, because the dress revealed rather more than it concealed. It was fair to say that every shred of fabric was chosen and placed the better to adorn her natural assets rather than conceal them.

It goes without saying that the cut and colour of the dress were the last things that Goldberry would have chosen to wear herself, in spite of how I remembered her in her door-bitch uniform in the Headless Horseman. Which all goes to show how it’s a good thing to let other people dress you occasionally, else startling possibilities might remain forever unrealised. The predominant colour was red, set off with gold and silver sequins like a shower of sparks from a forge. I imagined they were going to cover her shaven head with some sort of a flamboyant wig, but instead they produced something lacy and silvery, surmounted by a tiara of brilliants, which glowed and sparkled in its own light.

I presented my arm and Goldberry took it as if I was offering her a horseshoe fresh off the blacksmith’s anvil. Together we promenaded to the restaurant like a prince and princess from a distant planet. The other guests were wandering about in finery just as opulent, but the seamstresses had clearly hit the right note with Goldberry, the way heads turned to stare.

We followed the sound of pattering drums down a winding tunnel richly carpeted in red from wall to wall. Soon we emerged into a wide space full of lights and colours against the deepest dark. ‘Krax’ Restaurant was the hippest joint in Middle Earth. All the cooking was done by volcanic heat over wells and fissures in the lava, from which there emanated a ruddy glow. Orc chefs slaved in the heat, as they must have done when Mount Doom was the Dark Lord’s forge, and every now and then their sweating bodies, luridly lit by the furnaces, would be transformed into black silhouettes as flames and white sparks flew up in their faces and clouds of steam spurted around their legs and billowed up above their heads.

Strange to say, in spite of the fury of the culinary vulcanism, the restaurant was no more than pleasantly warm. The decor was that of a cave, probably natural, which must have opened up beneath a vast tilting plate of rock when the underlying lava was soft like treacle. But the ceiling was not natural and had been slid back to reveal a clear sky with the gibbous waxing moon three days from the full. The light which glowed on the faces of the guests was both heavenly and hellish, one cheek fringed with soft moonlight like frosted citrus, the other rouged with the flickering glare of the open kitchen range, while their eyes gleamed in candle flames which rocked and shimmered in bowls of cut crystal.

I looked round at the guests. They were few orc faces among them. No parties of orcs – those that I noticed were dotted around amidst the other guests. Upwardly mobile orcs who could afford to fraternise with men and elves. Sitting as far from the furnaces as they could get I noticed a large party of young elves, making a lot of noise. Were the elvish younger generation branching out from their traditional fare of simple woodland feasts, trying new things, new experiences? Something to savour while they were young, before they became immersed in the preoccupations of their elders? If so, Mirkwood and Lórien would never again hold a candle to the Mandate, should they ever feel the urge to cater for the modern tastes of their young folk. Then I remembered hearing that Lúthien University at Imladris had an outstation on the north shore of Bagronkbûrz. These were obviously students on the Dark Studies course.

The head waiter met us with a bow and escorted us to our table. The face of our host was lit by candlelight, but not sufficiently to make out his features until we were standing right by the table. I couldn’t decide if he was a fairly plain man or an exceptionally beautiful orc. Either way he was attired like a prince dressed for the company of his womenfolk, wearing rather more jewellery than a prince might wear. Grimwald Uruksson smiled and rose to his feet, extending his hand. Slowly taking Goldberry’s fingers in his, he kissed her knuckles with reverence. Goldberry held herself like a marble statue before a gushing fountain.

“Welcome to the Royal Mandate of East Ithilien, Miss Aelvsson. I trust you’ve had an enjoyable stay so far?” Turning to me he said, “And to you, Mr Overdale, I bid Hail and Welcome! How lucky you are to travel with such a ravishing companion.”

Waiters eased us into our chairs. “Miss Aelvsson is more in the nature of a business colleague,” I said to his frankly disbelieving face. “Newcomer as I am to Minas Ithil, she has done me the exceptional favour of introducing me to quite a few notables in the city.”

Grimwald’s eyes showed that he relished my turn of phrase. I thought he was going to add something to that, but instead he turned the beacon of his easy charm upon Goldberry.

“And how does it feel, Miss Gee – may I call you Gee? – being a dryad in fabulous Minas Ithil?”

“I’m not exactly a dryad – I’m a naiad. I don’t know much about trees in general, just the ones that grow along river banks. I’ll tell you anything you want to know about willows and poplars.”

“Really now?” replied Grimwald with a deep chuckle. “What’s your opinion of our attempts to grow poplars along the canals in Udûn?”

I was sure Goldberry was going to wince at that, but she kept herself under heroic control. “The poplars I saw gave me to understand that they’d rather be anywhere else than Udûn.”

“The trouble with being a tree is that you have to remain where you’re planted.”

“Not in Minas Ithil you don’t,” retorted Goldberry. “You heard about the huorns?”

Grimwald laughed heartily. “Oh, yes! – who hasn’t?” He peered at me. “But from the look on Mr Overdale’s face, it doesn’t appear that he _has_...!”

“No. I must confess I don’t know what you two are talking about.”

“Well,” said Grimwald. “In one of Minas Ithil’s numerous face-lifts, the dwarf contractors supplied trees to line the avenues. The ‘trees’ turned out to be huorns from Fangorn Wood. Everybody said how well they had taken and how nice they looked, but first the stray dogs began to disappear, and then the tramps, and then various people walking home from the pub after dark. The City Council gave orders for the trees to be chopped down. But they didn’t hang around to wait for that and departed for goodness knows where, all in the same night. I suppose _you_ don’t know where they went, do you, Gee?”

“Back across the Anduin to Fangorn Wood I’d guess,” replied Goldberry. “They can swim, you know. They can even manage to forge their way upstream a bit.”

“Ha-ha! But not as far as the Brandywine River and the Old Forest, eh? That would have been rather a long way even for a huorn to come, just to stand around in Minas Ithil looking pretty.”

Goldberry, unperturbed, replied “Everywhere’s good for a change, now and again.”

It wasn’t lost on me how Grimwald was making a point of showing he knew everything there was to know about Goldberry. Except the one thing none of us knew – why she was here. Hers was the ideal cover story – she just went around as herself.

I had considered doing that too, but I had put away a friend or two of Grimwald’s when I’d done a job for GUB in the newly founded Doom City over 20 years ago. It was unwise to rely on Grimwald having a short memory. I’d rehearsed my story well, but I was waiting in trepidation for him to start directing a few well-honed questions at me.

He didn’t. Perhaps he’d had no option but to accept me at face value – a stranger nobody seemed to know anything about, who travelled in distant lands – a merchant adventurer. I was rather hoping that was true, although I knew I ought not to depend on it.

Grimwald drew a glistening bottle from the ice-bucket at his elbow. He poured it – the wine was excellent. Knowing a bit about wine I ventured a guess. “Old Winyards?”

“Same grape variety, but grown here on the southern slopes of Mount Doom. This is the first selection of course.”

I said, “I wouldn’t have credited it! But they do say all grapes need is sunlight. They thrive on stony soil.”

“They love a volcanic soil. And it imparts a special flavour to the wine.”

The three of us chinked glasses. “Well – here’s to Trade,” said Grimwald. “Free Trade. World Trade. Trade gloriously free from regulations. Anything from fine wines to – er – personal jewellery.”

The waiters came with dishes of hors d’oeuvres. I was dreading having to eat meat in an orc establishment, but this looked like a medley of vegetables, although I didn’t recognise a single one. I prodded my fork in and tasted them cautiously.

“Met anything like these before on your travels, Mr Overdale?”

Was he testing me? “No,” I said confidently. “I don’t recognise any of them. And the sauce is delicious. It doesn’t look as if there is a market opportunity for imported vegetables here in the Mandate, as I was rather hoping.”

“No indeed! These have been invented and grown here in Doom City. They don’t need earth and they don’t need light.”

“That’s amazing! I’d had half a suspicion we were eating sliced huorn” – a remark which earned a chuckle from Grimwald. I continued, “But you used the word ‘invented’. Shouldn’t that have been ‘bred’?”

“I choose my words carefully. These plants – if you can call them plants – have been developed like new mechanical devices. And patented as such. It’s hard to tell these days whether what you are eating is animal, vegetable or mineral. But orcs have never eaten food grown on the surface. They’ve always had things they could grow deep down in caves. Slimy, unpleasant-tasting things for the most part. It’s only in recent years that they’d been able to engineer roots and fruits which are palatable enough to serve in the best restaurants. Not bad, are they?”

“No, not bad at all,” I agreed. Goldberry threw me a sidelong glance.

Our host treated us to a lyrical description of all the new products being invented in Doom City. Products to rival Udûn, not to mention Dale in the North. And what a great place Doom City was to live in! He was recommending Goldberry to come and try it (he had a job for her, of course) and launched into a catalogue of the massage parlours, fetish clubs and strip joints for which Doom City was rapidly becoming famous. All of which he had a hand in – and didn’t care who knew it.

“Minas Ithil had better look to its laurels!” he said. “If My Lord Faramir has his way, the place will be gentrified before you can say ‘odds and sods’!”

I laughed. I had to admire the man’s egregious wit – for more of a man than an orc I had decided he was. I’d heard how charming Grimwald Uruksson could be and I was just wondering whether I could afford to relax enough to enjoy the meal, when the main course arrived.

Goldberry, wide-eyed, stuffed her napkin into her mouth to stifle a scream. I stared at the fried fish on my plate. It was not properly dead and it was working its jaws furiously, even though the rest of the body was cooked and the fins crisp.

Grimwald started tucking into his fish with relish. “I heard mention about Miss Gee not eating dead things, so I thought I’d order something that was still alive. It’s a speciality of the hotel. It’s a lifetime’s skill of the chef, to dip the body in the hot oil just long enough to deep-fry it, but not to kill it stone-dead.”

When he’d finished his fish he helped himself to ours as well. “I’m sorry you two weren’t hungry,” he said. “The vegetables _were_ rather filling. But be sure to have a dessert – mother isn’t standing over you now, ha-ha! I heartily recommend the fruit pie and cream, especially the forest fruits. Me – I have an insatiable passion for forest fruits – for berries of all sorts.”  



	13. Kiss by Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

When we got back to our room I opened the shutters and stepped out onto the balcony. Neither of us spoke a word. The gibbous moon was three days from the full. He glared with a strange dim ferocity on the lava-smeared landscape. It was all rather beautiful, but it was a sinister beauty.

The air was flat. It wasn’t going to be as pleasant sitting out on the balcony as I’d hoped. Turning to go in I spotted two figures standing on a pier of rock, rapt in each others’ arms. Goldberry sidled up and slipped her hand around my shoulder.

“They don’t look like orcs to me,” I said. There was hardly need to point them out.

“Nor elves.”

“But don’t they make a pretty couple!”

“Oh! – to be young again,” said she.

I looked at Goldberry’s fair brow and chuckled. It had sounded so incongruous and yet it was perfectly apt. “Can you remember what the world looked like when you were young?” I asked.

“This hill of fire wasn’t here... nor were the grey fells of the Ered Lithui. Gorgoroth was a field of waving grass and in springtime a carpet of bright flowers. The Moon did not look so bruised and shattered when the world was young... and many were my sisters in this land.”

She slid her arm down to my waist and hugged me. “Tell me, in your turn... what the world looked like when you were young.”

“Burnt homesteads. Shattered windows. Broken gates a-swinging. Walls thrown down and grass growing through the stones. Vast mounds fresh-reared over fallen warriors. Trees cut down in leaf and left to wither. Yet the hope in men’s eyes gave promise of renewal – and such has come about. But in truth the light went out from the eyes of the elves. And they themselves... went out over the sea. And with them went my father and my mother... leaving me behind.”

I sighed painfully. “The light died in their eyes! Permanence and steady growth – nevermore to be in the earth’s gift. Speedy growth in its place, hasty, reckless – a handful of years of wild-rose beauty, a handful more of creeping decay. And then an age of silence, till the world’s end. That is the promise held out to those young folk we see down there.”

It was Goldberry’s turn to chuckle. “I’m sure they’d be pleased to hear that! Will you tell them?”

“Will I ever see them again? _Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar_...”

“But of course you will! Don’t you recognise them?”

I turned to stare at her. She said “The girl is Elandrine, I fancy. And her swain...”

I turned to look at them again. “...Is Imalad – or I’m a dwarf! What are _they_ doing here?”

“Same as us. Relaxing in the spa! Enjoying themselves.”

“‘Same as us’ – would mean combining pleasure with business! But what is their business here? That’s what I’d like to know!”

 

 

 

The following evening, Grimwald again extended an invitation to dinner. Goldberry begged to be excused, but as it happened the invitation was for me only. Some sort of council was evidently going to take place.

Grimwald had booked a private room. ‘Krax’ Restaurant was no place to go discussing confidential business and in any case we needed hush. The room was well-appointed, in keeping with the decor of the bath-houses – mock broken pillars dotted around, fountains, pebbles and pools, alcoves and concealed lighting. A plush table had been laid in the centre of the room for four people.

Grimwald was there waiting for us all and he offered me some of his pipe-weed. Next came Guthmud and the three of us chatted desultorily about the Mandate’s chances of winning the open falconry championship for the fourth year running. Then the door opened and the flunkey standing guard outside ushered in the fourth member of our little council.

My jaw dropped. It was Imalad!

He strode to the table and greeted the others by name. But before me he hesitated, then gave a short bow in silence. It was clear he was as surprised to see me as I was him. He turned to Grimwald, his eyes appealing for a formal introduction.

“Ah, yes, Imalad – you two won’t know each other. This is Mr Overdale, a merchant and traveller. He has not long returned from Haradwaith and has taken up residence, I’m given to understand, in Minas Ithil. Mr Overdale – this is Imalad, the son of Prince Imrahil, in the King’s service. He is a close friend of the good Morfindel, whom we know, and who, alas, cannot be here with us tonight.” Turning to Imalad he said, “And how is Master Morfindel faring?”

Keenly holding my gaze Imalad replied “As well as can be expected. He’s had a pretty nasty – er...”

“...Fall,” I prompted.

“Fall,” repeated Imalad. “They’re making him as comfortable as they can in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. He sends his regards by the way.”

“What’s your opinion, Imalad?” said Grimwald. “Will he be fit to take part in the Big Event?”

Still keeping his eye fixed firmly on mine Imalad slowly shook his head. “I fear that is out of the question, unless we postpone it, which none of us has any inclination to do.”

“Well,” said Grimwald, “as it happens I think we can go ahead without him. When he’s better he can then drop by and reap the benefit of it all. For which I’m sure he’ll be glad to reward us all a little bit more. I was however rather relying on him for an essential link in the chain, so to speak. Have you any news about that, Imalad?”

“No... at least – nothing positive to relate. It seems he has enjoyed little in the way of luck so far.”

“Then maybe we have a pleasant surprise for you. But first – dinner. A man cannot be expected to plot on an empty stomach.”

Grimwald rang a little silver bell and a feast was carried in. Dishes of food of all sorts, but I was thankful to notice no deep fried snapping fish.

Imalad eagerly fell on the food. You would have thought he hadn’t eaten for days. I too was quite hungry and we ate solidly and silently for several minutes, during which the orcs did little more than watch us.

From time to time Imalad’s eyes would rise from his plate to meet mine. I couldn’t decide whether the looks he gave me were of suspicion, complicity, puzzlement, interrogation, or sheer and utter desperation. Was he deciding when and how to denounce me as an impostor? Was he trying to decide whether I was in on the plot? Or was he, like me, a spy for the King? Somehow, I knew, he would have to resolve this issue. I wondered how he’d go about it.

I cast a quick glance at Grimwald. He was watching us both with veiled amusement. I wasn’t altogether sure just whom he thought the joke was on.

Imalad must have realised he wasn’t making a good job of hiding his discomposure because he blurted out, “Forgive me for saying, but when a new member is brought into a plot at a late stage, the others can’t help it if they feel a little in need of reassurance as to his bona fides.”

Grimwald folded his fingers. “Mr Overdale’s credentials are impeccable. What is more he has rendered us a signal service.” He turned to me. “Now is the time, I think, to show our little conclave what you showed Guthmud the other day. You do have it on you, don’t you?”

“Most definitely,” I replied. “I thought you were never going to ask.” I took out the fake Angrennan and placed it on the table.

Imalad dropped his knife with a clatter. He looked from Guthmud to Grimwald to me and then round the three of us again.

This was the moment of truth. If Imalad did indeed possess the real Angrennan, the ring he’d described to me so accurately, he would know that this ring was a fake. But what would he do then? Would he challenge me directly? Or indirectly? Or would he simply keep quiet for the present, secretly denouncing me to the others when the opportunity arose?

“How came you by this?” It must have been just what was on his mind, but I hadn’t expected so direct a question.

“I would rather not say right out. I am offering this ring for sale, so naturally I don’t want its price bargained down. But I assure you I do have some title to it. I’ve come by it honestly – I have not taken it from the previous owner against his will.” I stressed those last words to counter the aggressiveness of Imalad’s question and to warn him not to probe too deeply, in case I started alluding to our earlier conversation. He might well be angry with me for letting him describe the ring to me as if it were lost and all the while I had it in my possession. Or so it would appear to him. He would wonder what my motives were. I decided to let him think they were the basest, most venal imaginable. In the present circumstances, that was the safest course.

“Imalad does have a point,” interjected Grimwald. “When we have agreed on a price for it, will you then tell us how you came by it?”

“Gladly!” I exclaimed. I smiled in Imalad’s face. “But first let me ponder this. Would somebody care to tell me exactly what they think it _is_?”

Grimwald reached into his pocket and pulled out a jeweller’s eyeglass, which he twisted expertly into his eye socket. He picked up the ring and subjected it to a quick scrutiny. Then he put it back on the table. “It’s a piece of fashion jewellery. The stone is of no great value, but the craftsmanship is superb. It would be hard to value it on the open market.”

I turned to Guthmud. “You seemed very excited when you first saw it. What did _you_ suppose it was?”

Guthmud regarded me with a cunning smile. “It’s all very well for you to say you don’t want the price bargained down. But can you blame us if we don’t want its price bargained _up_? Telling you what I think it is might do just that.”

“It has ever been my principle,” I replied, “to charge for goods and services according to their perceived value to the purchaser, not according to someone’s guess at their inherent value. If indeed there is such a thing. Because if there is no willing seller nor willing buyer, then there is no price, inherent or otherwise.”

“Well,” said Grimwald, looking round the table, “Mr Overdale puts it on a plate for us. Are we ‘willing buyers’? Do we want it? Why I called us all together is so that we can be sure we have agreement on this vital question. If the answer is yes, I would have Mr Overdale rewarded most handsomely for his diligence in searching it out and for bringing it all the way here to Hotel Doom.”

I nodded to Grimwald. “Many have spoken to me about you,” I said, “and all are agreed that you’re a most generous man.” That made him smile, but not broadly. “Yet I have to ask myself, am I a ‘willing seller’?”

“Why should you not be?” snapped Guthmud. “What are you here for, then? Once having put it down on the table, are you seriously proposing to pick it up and take it away again?”

I folded my fingers and held his eye in a level gaze. “Are you suggesting that I am in no position to do just that? Why then, you could offer me whatever price you liked, no matter how absurd. That is why I made a point of saying that I enjoyed some title to the thing – that I was entitled to sell it. Or not to sell it, if I so choose. I am not a common fence of stolen goods! Nor am I without redress... if there are any who would wish to steal from me.”

Guthmud’s features contorted. “Do you really suppose you could just get up from the table and walk out of here...?”

I snatched up the ring and put in my pocket, returning his fierce glare.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Grimwald crooned. “I have not the slightest intention of letting Mr Overdale depart from here... without being fully recompensed. All we have to do between the four of us is to decide on the price.” He turned to me. “But I see you have misgivings...”

“Simply this, Master Grimwald. Just now Imalad son of Imrahil uttered the word ‘plot’. So did you. By selling you this ring I imagine I become embroiled in this putative ‘plot’. Now you may take the view that I oughtn’t go seeking to know more than is good for me. But there is much that I come to know, in travelling to and fro – all of which on principle I keep to myself!”

Casting a fierce gaze round the dinner table I challenged anyone to gainsay me. Nobody did.

“And another of my principles,” I continued, “is not to be held accountable for things I don’t know the first thing about. Am I to be denied access to the King’s court, with its wealthy clientele, as a result of being branded a consorter with plotters against the Realm? Or worse... as a plotter myself? If so the price must go up somewhat to reflect that.”

There was silence. Grimwald broke it at last. “Well, what do you all say to that? I propose that we let Mr Overdale in on the plot. He may then decide for himself whether we are plotters against the Realm – or whether we are in reality its benefactors! I would rather he came to the latter conclusion. Then maybe the price would go _down_ somewhat” – he winked at me – “to reflect the privilege of working with us.”

“If only Morfindel were here!” groaned Guthmud. “...Yes, all right, I agree.”

“Imalad?”

Imalad seemed to be fighting with himself to come to a decision. At last he said “Yes, all right. Let us let in Mr Overdale on our plan, if it will help him decide whether the price he is getting is fair and generous.” He turned abruptly to me. “No, Mr Overdale, you will _not_ be denied access to the King’s court. Not if the plan succeeds – as it will. Rather you will be welcomed as a hero – by the new King!”

“By the new King! Whoever might that be?”

“None other than Morfindel son of Gollum!” The three of them raised their glasses.

I whistled. “And how is _that_ to come about?”

“First we capture the Queen. Then we kill the King. Then Morfindel weds the Queen and achieves what Aragorn son of Arathorn seemingly cannot (snigger-snigger): get her to bestow a son and heir upon her loyal subjects.”

“Excuse me,” I mumbled, “while I pick myself up off the floor.”

“Mr Overdale is impressed by the boldness of our plan,” said Grimwald. “But to be bold it is not necessary to be foolhardy. Our plans are well laid and cannot help but succeed.”

“Why is this ring so important to those plans?”

Grimwald shrugged and splayed his hands. “Ah – that I do not wish to divulge just yet. It will benefit you not at all to know it, and indeed it would be dangerous for you. Suffice it to know that you have contributed an essential ingredient. One which, as you correctly surmise, embroils you... up to the neck.”

The way he stressed those last words sent a shiver down my spine.

“But were GUB to pounce on you the moment you left here,” he continued, “it would avail them nothing to try and squeeze the information out of you, because you would have nothing to tell them. They might even let you go and the plan would be safe – and in the New Kingdom you would be amply compensated for your pains (...agonies, perhaps!). Are you prepared to accept that, in return for becoming party to our broader intentions?”

“Grimwald,” I smiled, “I trust to your judgement in the matter.” Since I knew already what they were proposing to withhold from me I was happy to agree. It was the rest of the plan I needed to know about.

The plan was a simple one. Morfindel had arranged to sell Guthmud a valuable carpet and the palace scribe had drawn up a legal deed on the finest vellum which made it all neat and tidy. The coming Sunday, 14th May, a covered wain would enter Minas Tirith by the Great Gate and climb the zigzag route to the Citadel entrance in the Sixth Circle. A party of workmen – orcs from Minas Ithil in the pay of Guthmud – would emerge, cross the courtyard and enter the White Tower, with the vellum as their authorisation, and proceed on up to Morfindel’s bedroom. There they would collect a carpet rolled up ready and waiting for them. The carpet would contain the person of the Queen herself, seized and subdued by the palace insiders, Morfindel and Imalad. They would then calmly drive away, taking the road north, which led through Grey Wood. Rounding Amon Dín the road became the Great Western Road that led through the lands of the Rohirrim to Edoras – and thence to the gap of Rohan, whence lies Isengard.

As Legolas had already informed me, the Tower of Orthanc, standing in the centre of the Ring of Isengard, had been secretly purchased from the ents by Morfindel and sumptuously equipped to house a royal prisoner, and of course to withstand a long siege. The Tower of Orthanc is unassailable, having been built by the Numenoreans in a former age. The sole recourse open to Gondor would be to occupy Isengard and lay siege to Orthanc – which was something it would easily withstand for two or three years. Ample time to conduct negotiations, not to mention reducing the Queen to submission in case she was of a mind to resist.

But it would probably not come to that. Shortly after the kidnap the King would be assassinated, via the same agency as was used to lay hands on the Queen (here everybody’s glance strayed to the ring on the table) and Morfindel would be proclaimed King. If the people of Gondor resisted him, a resurgent Mordor would rise in rebellion, invade the Pelennor and lay siege to Minas Tirith once again, as it had done half a century before. Plans were in hand to take over Minas Ithil, which Morfindel would hold as his seat of government until the Tower of Guard capitulated. This would come swifter the sooner Morfindel won over the Queen, and of course got her with child. The realm of Gondor, presented with an accomplished fact, would settle down for another 50 years of peace and prosperity under the reign of the same beloved Queen. But with a younger, more virile King, safe in the knowledge that the succession was secured.

“Has anyone thought to sound out the Queen?” I asked.

Grimwald took a deep breath. “Master Morfindel has not been idle,” was all that he would say. I looked at Imalad but he declined to comment.

“And where does Lady Elandrine stand in all this?” I inquired. This time I looked straight at Imalad, expecting an answer. Imalad remained silent.

I continued, “I think it essential that her full co-operation be assured, or else a reliable plan put in place for her elimination. And don’t imagine for a moment the latter will be easy. That’s a lady who can look after herself.”

Imalad lowered his gaze. “I’m working on it right now,” he said.

“Mr Overdale speaks for us all,” said Grimwald sternly. “How is the girl shaping up?”

“Oh... very well! Very well indeed! Morfindel had – I mean: has – an excellent relationship with Elandrine. They get along like a house on fire.”

“In what way?” I asked, suppressing a chuckle. I couldn’t resist gathering even more Morfindel titbits.

“Why, don’t you know? ...Of course I was forgetting. As a stranger, you won’t be familiar with court gossip. Morfindel likes to take a rest now and again from being a domineering sort of chap and he books Elandrine to come into his bedroom at midnight, dressed in black leather gear, and whip him around a bit. The guards are instructed to ignore screams coming from the bedroom at that hour.”

The orcs sniggered. I must confess I couldn’t help smiling myself. “We could do even better for him in Minas Ithil,” laughed Guthmud. “But he never gets around to asking!”

With ill-concealed distaste Imalad replied, “Morfindel prefers to be mauled around by someone prettier than you’d be able to field, Master Guthmud.” He rounded on Grimwald. “Perhaps when this business is over I could even lend Elandrine to _you_ – as the star attraction in one of your night-spots. But the price would be high. Even _Mr Overdale_ can have no idea just how high...”

Both orcs laughed heartily at that. Grimwald waved his hand palm-downwards. “Relax... relax, Imalad, my dear friend. We don’t mean to trample all over your – er – personal dealings. But like Mr Overdale here, we all crave _reassurance_. That girl could put a spoke in our wheel! Her attachment to the Queen is beyond all doubt. If she cannot be persuaded to co-operate, for the Queen’s own good, then I fear she _will_ have to be eliminated. The worst that could happen is that she pretends to go along with the plan and then turns round and stabs us in the back at a critical juncture. I mean – you do see our point, don’t you?”

It took a few seconds for Imalad’s eyes to stop smouldering, but they did. He hitched up his sleeves. “If I can’t bring her round to our point of view I’ll waste her myself. There – will that do?”

Grimwald rubbed his beautifully manicured hands. “That’s what I like to hear. Dedication to the Cause. I’ve no doubt you can do the job perfectly well. But be assured of our complete co-operation...”

Imalad settled back into his chair with an injured smile, thinking that was the end of the matter. But Grimwald wasn’t for letting it go. “And we must all think of ways to implicate her as an accomplice. Ways which will compromise her so _thoroughly_ , she has no choice but to cast in her lot with us. Mr Overdale – that means you too.”

I sat up in my seat. “Why – what can I possibly do about _that_? Short of persuading Elandrine to murder _me_...?”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” I could see down Grimwald’s throat. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Just watch your precious Miss Gee carefully for the next day or two. Something will present itself to you.”

I was puzzled. “What do you mean by that?”

“Never you mind. Just wait and see.”

Something Imalad had said was burning a trail through my mind like a shooting star. I wondered if I dared clarify the matter there and then.

“Morfindel and Elandrine...” I ventured. “Is that story true, then?”

Imalad turned hostile eyes on me. “I’ve never seen them at it, if that’s what you mean.”

“No – no... I mean to say, surely they go to some lengths to conceal the appointment? However does Elandrine get in and out of Morfindel’s bedroom unseen?”

“Through the secret passage of course!” Imalad snapped.

I nodded slowly, glazing my eyes as if he had hit me between them with a leg of ham. I wanted to say, “But the secret passage that you and I both know about leads to the ground floor!” ...but I didn’t dare. Not in the present company. Later maybe, if I got the chance.

But it didn’t make sense. Elandrine, as the Queen’s personal bodyguard, lived with the latter in her apartments when she was on-duty. To be seen leaving those apartments on a regular basis, in the wee small hours, when she was supposed to be guarding the Queen, to go down the main staircase to the Grand Hallway – but once there not to proceed on out of the building, would invite curiosity and unfavourable comment. There was another secret passage, as I now knew, from the King’s bedroom. But Elandrine was most unlikely to be using that. Unless – that is – she had something going with the King? ...I dismissed the idea without a second thought. It was exactly the sort of liaison Aragorn had told me he was at pains to avoid and I had no cause to doubt it. Unless Queen Arwen was actually lending him Elandrine? ...but that too I rapidly dismissed.

So there must be a further passage that I had yet to discover. One leading to Morfindel’s bedroom... from the Queen’s apartments.

And then it struck me! This must be the very passage the plotters were planning to use to convey the Queen from her apartments to Morfindel’s bedroom, where she would be rolled up in the carpet waiting there to be taken away!

The existence of such a passage added a whole new scenario to the murder. What if it was Elandrine that had murdered Morfindel? I could picture him crouching naked on his bed, leaning on his elbows, fingers laced tightly around the back of his neck, awaiting the caress of the whip. But instead one day he gets a white hot poker between his conveniently presented buttocks. No need to tie him up, hence no marks on his limbs. No evidence of a struggle, beyond the obvious signs of his death-throes. Elandrine wouldn’t require assistance to hold him down. The guards – and this was crucial – the guards had been ordered to ignore screams! And after it was over she could quietly tiptoe out again... back to the Queen’s bedroom. With or without the knowledge of the Queen. But on balance I thought, _with_ her knowledge.

I pictured them sitting side-by-side on the edge of the Queen’s bed, holding hands and laughing as Elandrine described, in detail fit to make an old maid blush and a minstrel go green with envy, how the son of Gollum had writhed and squealed under her merciless ministrations.

And how the Queen would laugh! Oh yes – how she would laugh!

I gazed round at the faces of my fellow conspirators. Grimwald had just cracked a joke to mollify Imalad and it seemed to have done the trick. All three of them were guffawing heartily till the blood rose to their faces. All of us were sitting here, feeling very much in control of events, as if the fate of Middle Earth rested in the palms of our hands – or sat there on the table in the guise of the black ring.

And yet – what if we were all merely the Queen’s instruments? Her cat's paws? What if that endlessly refined elvish mind had engineered all this as her escape route? If she were at risk of being unmasked as the murderess, as indeed I had threatened her with at our tryst in the Mallorn, without really meaning to, then Orthanc was to be her bolt-hole. It would give her time to conduct the delicate negotiations with her husband to escape the harsh if impartial law of Gondor. She was Queen of Elves as well as Men – and the Elves would have scant sympathy with Morfindel’s death being avenged in anything more than a token manner. And the Elves were not alone in that!

 

 

 

When I got back to my room, in my pocket a banker’s draft cashable in Minas Ithil for a million gold crowns, Goldberry wasn’t there. But soon there came girly chuckles from the corridor and Goldberry staggered in, her arms around the neck of Elandrine. Both of them were in the standard hotel garb of bathrobe, slippers and nothing else and both were glowing pink from the sweat-lodge and the massage slab, birch branches, hot volcanic poultices – and what else I durstn’t think.

“Oh, Goss! You’re back!” I couldn’t tell whether she was pleased to see me or not. “How did it go?”

“Wonderfully,” I said, my eyes on Elandrine. “I got everything I asked for.”

“No half-dead fish this time? – I told Elandrine about that...”

“No, you missed a treat.”

The girls looked at each other and giggled. “No, I don’t think so. We’ve had a gorgeous time together.”

I was about to say that I’d met up with Imalad and had had an equally gorgeous time with him, but something stopped me. Either Elandrine knew all about our little conclave, or she knew nothing. Either way, making her a gift of that intelligence was profitless.

Goldberry tottered into the bathroom. Elandrine flopped down on the bed. The front of her bathrobe fell open, but she didn’t do anything about it.

“What a surprise to see you here!” I said, thinking how such shapely breasts were wasted on a shieldmaiden like her. “Though I fancy I spotted you earlier...”

“I think I might have spotted Goldberry first.” Her voice didn’t sound awfully friendly. She was daring me to ask: “What are you doing here?” I knew the question would be flung right back at me.

When I said nothing, Elandrine continued in a drowsy voice, “I thought she looked fabulous in her evening dress yesterday. I wish the hotel would do something like that for me. But there! – when you’re the guest of _Grimwald Uruksson_...” she spat out the name “...money is no object.”

“Elandrine...” I said softly. She didn’t disturb her pose of drowsy abandon, but I saw her eyes glint beneath her long black lashes. “Do you hold something against me?”

She sat up so abruptly the bathrobe slid off her shoulders. Almost as an afterthought she pulled it up again and wrapped it tightly around her. “Where shall I start, son of Gandalf?”

“Come on, out with it.”

“Well,” she said, as if we were discussing the weather. “I didn’t like your attitude to the Queen. She implored your help – and you simply walked out on her.”

I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. “What else could I do? There was a serious conflict of interest. I have been commissioned by the King to investigate a _murder!_ ” I looked her keenly in the eye as I stressed the word. She held my gaze without wavering. You’re a cool one I thought. And, I warned myself, you are not as sozzled as you’re making out.

She replied, “I suppose that includes plotting with Grimwald and Guthmud to kidnap the Queen? Isn’t that a conflict of interest too?” She raised her hand as I opened my mouth. “Oh, don’t bother to deny it. Imalad has told me _everything_.”

“To answer your first question – yes it does. And your second – no it isn’t. And just whose side is Imalad on anyway?”

“Just whose side are _you_ on? Tell me that first!”

At that moment Goldberry came out of the bathroom. “Elandrine darling, you’re going to have to go, I’m afraid. Goss is back and he wants to go to bed.”

Elandrine sprang off the bed like a panther. Leaning forward with her hands clasped behind her back she puckered her lips and gave Goldberry a tiny kiss on the cheek. “Just going, gorgeous. See you around.” She stalked to the door without a glance in my direction.

Goldberry called out after her “We must do that again sometime!” The door slammed.

Goldberry looked at me. “Did you say something to upset her?”

“I might have done. Touchy girl.”

I moved across to lie on the bed and moodily pulled Goldberry down beside me. “Oh, Goss,” she said, “you’re not jealous, are you? It’s just a bit of fun. Elandrine and I are _old_ friends.”

“I didn’t guess you even knew each other!”

“She’s my flat-mate.”

“ _What?_ ” I sat upright so sharply my back twinged.

“She shares the flat with me in Minas Ithil!”

“She doesn’t live in Minas Ithil! She lives in the White Tower! She’s Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen!”

“I know. But she likes to get away sometimes. Living in the White Tower all the time would drive anyone lulu. She’s hardly ever there – I mean in our apartment. It’s the idea more than anything.”  
  
“Wherever did you come across her?”

“She often used to come in the Headless Horseman. With Morfindel’s crowd at first. Then on her own. We really hit it off. Among other things she wanted to know how to use a whip, so I taught her. I never charged her for anything, though she’d press it on me. She only stopped when I told her I was doing it for love. Since then...”

“Where did _you_ learn to use a whip?” I asked in a shocked voice. “You don’t mean to say: Tom...?”

Goldberry laughed, like a tinkling freshet. “No, silly! Tom never needed sex aids. Can you really imagine it? _Tom?_ I had to learn it all in a crash course when they took me on at the Headless Horseman. Anyway I knew far more than Elandrine. She knew absolutely _nothing_ about men. I don’t know what she was doing all the time with those horse-boys in Edoras. Learning to ride horses, I suppose.”

“What did Elandrine want to know for?”

“Morfindel, of course. You’ve no idea the mischief that bloke stirred up.”

“I see I’m barely scratching the surface when it comes to Morfindel.” I thought I’d try a long shot. “I suppose he wanted dominating, in his own bedroom, did he?”

“Yes, that’s about the measure of it. By a big strong handsome woman like Elandrine.”

I pulled off Goldberry’s bathrobe and slid her under the bedclothes with me. Then I blew out the candle. I badly wanted to share my suspicions with her. But I had to ask myself where her loyalties were most likely to lie. With me? Or with Elandrine?

“Goss...” she said after a while, “I thought you’d be really really passionate after winning that big deal. But you’ve gone all cold and distant!”  



	14. A Good Send-Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

I woke early and leaving Goldberry asleep in bed I went off in search of breakfast. I could have gone to any one of a dozen places but I thought I’d try the cheery little bistro just off to the right of Reception.

Having collected myself an outsized pastry which the locals call a “troll’s bad eye”, plus a large mug of steaming black herbal brew, I looked for a vacant table. Whom should I see but Imalad, sitting hunched over a mug of the same stuff.

“Mind if I join you?”

He looked up startled, then he waved towards the seat opposite. I sat down.

“Am I sitting in Elandrine’s place?”

“Elandrine has gone back to Minas Tirith,” he replied. “She left at first light. She has to be back at the Queen’s side by noon tomorrow. How did you know she was here?”

“She and Goldberry met up for a fluffy evening together while we were having our council.”

“Oh. Best thing they could have done.”

He slouched back in his chair looking as if he was itching for me to go away again. I sipped my brew and waited for him to say something.

“It’s not a good idea for us to be seen locked in conversation,” he said at last. “Though there’s nothing suspicious about you stopping to exchange the odd word. Don’t look now, but that’s one of Grimwald’s henchmen by the door, stuffing his face. I don’t think he seen us yet.”

There was another pause. I waited for him to say something else.

“I must say it was most disagreeable seeing you there last night.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “Let me return the compliment.”

“It gave me a nasty shock when I came in and saw you sitting there. I nearly turned tail and bolted. I thought you were going to spill the beans. But I soon realised you were in as tight a spot as I was.”

“Yes,” I murmured. “Thank you for maintaining the fiction that Morfindel is still alive.”

Imalad said nothing, but drummed his fingers. He was right – there wasn’t much opportunity to talk here. I’d only have the chance for a few words and then I ought to depart. I decided to go for gold.

“Elandrine asked me last night whose side I was on.”

He took his time before replying. “I assume you’re on your own side.”

“Like you?”

He sat up. The look of boredom left his face, to be replaced by one of indignation.

“I’m certainly not on the side of _those_ monsters, if that’s what you think.”

“Well, I’m relieved to hear it.”

“The same cannot be said of you! Why did you have to go selling them that damned ring? Now they’ve got _everything_ they need to carry out their plans! I suppose you know what it is, don’t you? I noticed they weren’t for telling you – if you didn’t know already.”

I looked round cautiously. Nobody was listening. “It’s the Angrennan.”

“The – what? Angrennan?”

“ _The_ Angrennan.” I stressed the definite article. “The last of the Nine.”

“I didn’t know it had a name. But obviously you know all about it.”

“All the rings of Power had names.”

“That’s right – it’s a ring of Power. It makes you invisible.”

“Not any more.”

“Now listen to me. I may look young, but I wasn’t born yesterday. They told me you gave them a classic palantír too! Guthmud was convinced it was his anyway, but he’d lost it. He was so glad to get it back that he gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

“That was necessary to establish my credentials.”

“As a lying, thieving bastard?”

“Exactly. I wanted them to be comfortable dealing with me.”

Imalad barked a mirthless laugh. “They were certainly that! You had them eating out of your hand. But the – _the_ Angrennan...! Did your credentials need establishing quite so lavishly? How did you lay your hands on it anyway? That’s what I want to know!”

I almost said, “that’s my business” but that would have stopped the conversation stone dead. I thought I’d string him along. I felt he was so near to giving me the key to the whole affair.

“You mean: how did I lay my hands on it _first_?”

“Well...” Imalad made his lips go a funny shape. “You knew I was looking for it.”

“Yes. And you were so convinced Morfindel had it. But I happen to know who really owns that ring, and I wasn’t lying last night when I said I was entitled to sell it on their behalf.”

He looked at me as if he was trying to focus his eyes. “You know who _really_ owns it? Are you trying to tell me Morfindel _stole_ it then? I thought he’d bought it. I’m lost...!”

“The real owner of that ring, as everybody at court knows, or should know (at least the older generation, who’ll have seen it on her hand at official functions) – is Lady Éowyn. It was her battle trophy. Do I need to remind you of the details?”

Imalad’s eyes were wide. “No... no... I know all about it. The point is: if Morfindel stole it, as you imply, how did _you_ get hold of it?”

I glanced round at the door. Nobody seemed to be paying us any attention. “I happen to know the Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn very well. I was given that ring to assist me in my investigations. As I might have told you when we last met, I’m trying to bring Morfindel’s murderer to justice. To do that I can’t avoid prying into Morfindel’s little schemes.”

Imalad held up his hands. “Well – now you see the extent of them.”

“You can say _that_ again!”

Imalad made no reply. I said, “Are you going through with it?”

“The kidnap? I don’t see I have any option. Not now you’ve given them the ruddy crown jewels.”

“If we are to prevent this thing happening, we ought to work together.”

“Thank you, but I have my plans all laid. I don’t need any help. Least of all from you. The greatest help you can be to me is to keep out my bloody way – and not go throwing any more stones in the millpond. I can’t for the life of me imagine how you could possibly have given them _that...!_ ”

Pitching my voice low I said, “You don’t suppose I gave them the _real_ Angrennan, do you?”

“Well, what –?” His eyes narrowed. He was putting two and two together – he was beginning to see how Morfindel and I could both appear to possess the Angrennan. “So... when they try to use it – it won’t work?”

I nodded. It was a dangerous thing to do, to go putting that sort of intelligence into the hands of someone I wasn’t sure about – far from it. But there was one thing I was sure of now. Imalad did not have the real Angrennan in his possession. His body language was authentic – the possibility of two such rings in circulation had taken an appreciable time to sink in.

“Look,” I said. “I’ve got GUB on the job. We can take out Guthmud any time you like. I gather you’re supposed to be going back to the White Tower now, to make all the necessary preparations – something Morfindel would have done?”

“Yes. I’m off straight after breakfast.”

“Then why don’t you just go back there and forget the whole business? Let me and GUB mop up here.”

“That’s no good. The attempt will simply be made again. Next time there’ll be no warning. You’ve no idea of the planning that’s gone into this! You can’t stop the show by simply nailing Guthmud. You’d have to nail Grimwald too – and all his gang. And there’s more...”

I rocked my head slowly to and fro. “So you’re really going to do this thing, eh? You and Guthmud, in co-operation? And Elandrine...?”

“Yes, and Elandrine! She’s agreed to play her part. But don’t imagine for a moment that those gangsters are going to get their hands on Queen Arwen!”

“I sincerely hope not!” I said. “It’s one of her worst nightmares – falling into the hands of orcs. Particularly in view of what happened to her mother, Celebrían.”

“What? ...I don’t know about that.”

“Just ask the sons of Elrond, next time you’re passing through Imladris.”

He pondered all that before replying. “They say she can predict the future! If she’s so worried about being captured by orcs, does she actually _know_ it’s going to happen?”

“Who can say, among us mortals? There is much she knows. There is much she sees! Not only in her watery mirror, her grandmother’s secret, but in the King’s palantír, to which she freely has access – the Stone of Orthanc. Of one thing you can be certain: she knows who killed Morfindel.”

I thought I’d give it to him straight between the eyes. But I was unprepared for the look of sheer terror which flashed across his face. If he too suspected Elandrine, then it was heart-warming to see how loyally he could suffer on her behalf.

“Then why doesn’t she speak out?”

“Because such knowledge is not _evidence_ in a court of law.”

He dropped his chin to his breast, doubtless fearing for what I might have seen in his eyes. “But anyway, her being captured by orcs – it’s unthinkable!”

I reached across and patted his shoulder. “Well, just bear that in mind. She’s certain to have shared her fears with Elandrine. No matter what the girl’s promised you, there are some confidences she won’t reveal.”

I got to my feet and strolled slowly out of the cafe. The orc sitting by the door looked up at me. I smiled and nodded briefly and he looked away again.

Goldberry would be up by now and was no doubt ensconced in the bathroom. I thought I’d go for a quick bubble-bath before wandering back to the bedroom and helping her pack. It wouldn’t do to be seen rushing away in haste, but I didn’t suppose we’d be seeing anything more of Grimwald on this occasion. How wrong I was.

In a cubicle I slipped out of my things and into a bathrobe. Going down the wooden steps into the steam I picked my way past various tubs of hot mud and green foaming water, these being little more than pits cut into the hot lava. It looked as if I had the place to myself.

I was making for a small spa-room that had appealed to me, when I happened to spot Ratbog. He was immersed up to the neck in what I took to be a bubble-bath and was working his jaw violently, as if silently trying to tell me something urgent. Looking briefly over my shoulder to see if we were being watched I made my way over to him and knelt down to try and catch what he was saying.

A blast of heat hit me in the face. I saw a wisp of blue smoke over the foaming fluid and realised it wasn’t water – it was boiling oil! My hand went to Ratbog’s streaming forehead, but the instant I touched him his head fell off sideways and sank in a mushroom of bubbles.

I scrambled to my feet in horror. The poor fellow was beyond my help. I cast wildly around me and shouted for assistance but there was nobody visible. What was I hoping to do anyway? Lift him out in a wire basket and let him drain?

Slipping into my cubicle I rubbed the palantír-ring. Grishnakh’s face crystallised in a sort of dark whirlpool. “Your cover’s blown, Goss!” he said. “They know who you are.”

“They’ve got Ratbog!”  
  
“I saw it all – through his ring. We’re coming to get you out of there. Hang on as long as you can. Play for time.”

“How long will you be?”

“Two hours, maybe three.”

“ _Elbereth...!_ ”

“The ropeway’s out of order. We’ll have to scale the mountain – and that black scree’s lethal!”

“Why did this have to happen now, of all times?”

“Grimwald owns the hotel, don’t you know? He can arrange things like that.”

I raced back to the bedroom, dreading what might have become of Goldberry. On the way I fell over a small boy in the corridor.

“Snargy!”

“They’re planning to kill you.”

“Who are?”

“My dad and Grimwald. They want to make it really nasty.”

I put my hands on his shoulders. “I know, lad. I’m making my getaway. Now you just look after yourself. If your dad gets to hear what you’ve told me...”

“They’re pretending the ropeway’s broken down. There’s no way off the mountain now – except the rubbish chute in the kitchen.”

“You’re a treasure!” I reached in my pocket and took out a crown. “Buy yourself an ice cream.”

But he put his hands behind his back. “I don’t want your f***ing money. Don’t you tarks believe in _friendship_?”

I felt so ashamed of myself. “I’ll try not to hurt your dad.” I ruffled his lank hair.

It was his turn to look ashamed. He hadn’t thought of that.

 

 

 

I hurriedly unlocked the bedroom door and plunged inside, turning the key behind me and putting the chain on. I leaned back against the door, gasping.

“Goldberry! ...Are you there?”

She was just coming out of the bathroom. “My, Goss! Whatever’s the matter? You’re as white as a sheet!”

“Something’s happened to Ratbog! Come on, grab your things. We’ve got to get out of here!”

I explained what had happened. Without a sound she fell into my arms. I kissed her eyelids tenderly. “Courage, my love. We’re not dead yet.”

There came a knock at the door. Goldberry froze.

Letting go of her I strode to the spy-hole and looked out. The bell-hop stood there in his uniform. He was holding a huge spray of flowers. Cautiously I unlocked the door and took the chain off.

“Master Uruksson sends his regards and hopes you will accept these.” Thanking him I took the flowers and handed them to Goldberry. She stood there clutching them numbly.

“He also sends an invitation to a banquet luncheon, to be held at one o’clock in your honour.” He proffered an envelope.

I took it and extracted the invitation. It was lavishly calligraphed and gilded. The bell-hop stood waiting patiently.

“Oh – I am sorry,” I said. I turned back into the bedroom and scrabbled in my breeches pocket for a crown. It happened to be the same crown I’d tried to give Snargy. I gave it to the man, who thanked me. But he continued to stand there with an expectant look on his face.

“Excuse me, but what are you waiting for?”

“With all due respect, Sir, you will notice the letters RSVP at the bottom of the invitation. Master Grimwald craves the honour of your reply by return, which you may give to me verbally.”

“No – we were just off... we need time to consider...” stammered Goldberry, hovering behind my left shoulder.

“No we don’t,” I said, mustering up a confident tone of voice. “Tell Master Grimwald, who has been very good to us up to now, that we are delighted to accept his kind invitation.”

The bell-hop turned smartly on his heel and marched away.

“What did you say that for? You just told me they’re planning to kill us! How could you possibly accept an invitation from them?”

“Goldberry, my pet... there’s no alternative. With the ropeway out of order, we’re trapped here on top of this volcano. Grimwald holds all the cards. Grishnakh said play for time – and that’s just what we’re going to do.”

I peered through the peephole again. A large wicker hamper, borne by unseen hands, had appeared outside our door. I hauled it into the room. Inside was a brand-new neatly pressed morning suit for me, a smart and very expensive blue dress for Goldberry (they already had our measurements) plus a white nosegay for my buttonhole and a posy of woodland blooms for Goldberry to carry.

I’ve attended a good few functions in my time at court, when I’d rather have been anywhere else in the world, but never have I prepared so reluctantly for a luncheon date. Goldberry moved like a sea horse in treacle. At last we were ready. With long faces and sinking hearts we looked at each other. Silently I held out my elbow towards her. Taking a deep breath, which shuddered as she let it out, she took my arm. We promenaded to the private dining suite at the appointed time as if we were going to a funeral. As indeed we were. Our funeral.

Before we went in I whispered in Goldberry’s ear, “Chin up, pet. You only die once. The people in there are just itching to see us come in wearing long faces. Let’s walk in merry and bright, just to spite them!”

Goldberry snapped to attention and put on a synthetic smile. Seeing her do that, a sense of fun bubbled up inside me from nowhere. I opened the door and politely ushered her in. Catching sight of her face as she slipped past me, my heart swelled with pride for her. She was looking as sunny and as joyful as she ever did when entertaining guests at her cottage in the Old Forest.

The first person we saw was Grimwald. Guthmud stood beside him, beaming like the cat that had got the cream. The two of them were surrounded by an entourage of uruks, big ugly characters who looked utterly out of place in formal dress – and were keenly aware of it.

Grimwald, who must have been looking forward to seeing signs of intimidation in our faces, responded with a moment of bashfulness to Goldberry’s sunny smile. Then instantly he rose to the occasion, becoming as suave and as urbane as I’d known him in our brief but sufficiently long acquaintance.

“Miss Gee! And Goss – my good friends! I’m so delighted that you’ve been able to come.” He spoke in a deep melodious voice as if to very old and dear comrades. I was paying so much attention to his tone of voice that it didn’t strike me there and then that he’d called me by my real name. I think he was unaware of it too.

“You’ve no idea how much this visit of yours has meant to me. Not only have we concluded some very useful business – very useful indeed! – but I feel that I’ve made two new friends for life.”

There wasn’t even an edge to his voice when he said “life”. I have nothing but admiration for a man who can control his body language like that.

“Master Grimwald,” I said, matching his tone of voice (just to show I could do it). “We have been overwhelmed by your hospitality during our stay. Your generosity knows no bounds! What is the occasion of this unexpected treat, just as we were about to depart?”

Unlike Grimwald, I didn’t altogether succeed in keeping an edge out of my voice on the word “depart”. He noticed and I thought for a moment he was going to giggle. But he quickly mastered himself.

“Please...” he said, taking my elbow and turning to the waiter. “A glass of sparkling wine each for my dear friends here.”

As the wine was being poured he said, “I really couldn’t bear to see you slip away without giving you a worthy send off. It’s so rare that I have guests of your quality to entertain – you must forgive me if I indulge myself whilst I have the opportunity. And really, Mr Overdale,...” (here he gave me a playful nudge in the ribs) “how can any host not be captivated by your delectable travelling companion, towards whom no act of generosity would seem too great?”

Goldberry lowered her head and batted her eyelashes submissively. She actually managed to blush prettily – I don’t know how she did it.

There was, in fact, all the trappings of a lavish banquet laid out on a long table. To this we repaired and Grimwald gallantly assisted Goldberry into her seat. The waiters scurried round, topping up all the glasses with sparkling wine. Grimwald raised his glass and tapped his knife on his plate for silence.

“Let me propose a toast to one of the most beautiful ladies who has ever set foot in this humble hotel of mine. It is my dearest wish that she will return again and again...” (and here the ghost of a cheeky smile passed across his lips) “...in fact if I had my way I’m not sure she would ever ‘depart’.”

It was the first of many toasts throughout that eerie meal. I raised my glass to propose a toast of my own (I wasn’t for letting him have it all his own way!)

“Now let me, in reply, toast the most magnificent and generous host I have come across for many a long year!” (He knew I had been travelling in darkest Haradwaith!) “May he enjoy a continuous stream of guests who never fail to bring him his heart’s desire...” (and here I permitted myself a cheeky smile too) “And may he never fail to reward them copiously for it!”

Goldberry caught my eye out of the corner of hers. She was trying to cotton on to what I was doing. Could I be so mealy-mouthed? Then she thought to go probing for broken glass in the pig swill, as she put it to me later. It was important to keep the sense of levity and mirth gushing out, because it was vital not to give the impression we were off our food. The more confident we could contrive to look, the more cautious Grimwald would be in trying to encompass our destruction. Playing for time – that’s what it was all about. Grimwald, convinced that he held all the cards, saw no danger in proceeding at a relaxed pace to humour us.

Then the food started arriving – dish after dish of the finest delicacies: at once rich and fattening, but of the sort to stick in your throat if you were the tiniest bit on edge. To my satisfaction, Goldberry tucked in with an appetite far in advance of her stature. So did I. Grimwald watched us with a sense of wonder. Were these people icy cool – or just plain stupid?

Actually I did begin to notice a certain detachment in Goldberry’s eyes. She was a little too relaxed – a little too resigned to her fate and a little too lacking in alertness. It suddenly occurred to me that something they’d given her had been drugged. I was convinced nothing narcotic had been fed to me, because I felt wide-awake, if not exactly on top of the world.

Grimwald raised his glass again. “The time has come for a very special ceremony! We will perform it in the side room over there, which has been made ready for us. Only those who have attained the required Order of Merit are permitted to witness the ceremony, I fear, so I beg the other guests please to hold us excused. In extenuation I promise you all it will only last a minute or two.”

Here it comes... I thought.

Grimwald went and opened a door at the end of the room. Two dozen of the heaviest uruks rose to their feet and filed in. Smilingly Grimwald beckoned to me, bidding me step inside.

Not knowing what to expect I walked into the room with as much confidence as I could muster. The uruks were lined up on either side, standing respectfully to attention. At the far end of this guard of honour, Grimwald stood behind a small polished table, upon which lay a little rosewood casket. Opening the lid he drew forth a medal on a red ribbon.

“Mr Overdale! Come forward!”

I did so and stood before him.

Still smiling, with every appearance of wishing to confer upon me a great honour, he placed the medal around my neck.

“I hereby invest you in the Grand Order of Mordor, First Class! When this proud nation comes at last to throw off the yoke of slavery, the name of Overdale will be remembered as one of the chief benefactors who made it all possible. Who returned to our guardianship one of the most precious items of our nation’s regalia – the Angrennan!”

The uruk guard of honour clapped and cheered.

Slipping his arm around my neck Grimwald escorted me towards the door which led back into the banqueting hall. I was in a haze of disbelief! Fully expecting to be rubbed-out, or at best beaten-up, I had to all appearances been greatly honoured by these people. How genuine that honour was I had no means of telling – but from what I knew of orc culture under the Dark Lord, it had seemed authentic. However cynical they were, and whatever they thought of tarks, they would not play jokes with the things that meant so much to them.

As I walked back to my place the guests at the long table applauded me enthusiastically. Everyone seemed to be in on the secret. Turning with puzzlement to face Goldberry I saw with a shock that her seat was empty. Up to this point I’d been doing so well. But as soon as I saw she was gone my nerve snapped.

How long were we all supposed to keep up this charade? In a loud voice I demanded “What have you done with Goldberry?”

Guthmud, sitting opposite, affected consternation. “M-Mr Overdale... I regret to say that whilst you were receiving your award, she suddenly felt ill and we’ve had to take her to the duty nurse! I’m sure there is nothing much the matter with her...”

“No!” I roared. “There is nothing at all the matter with her! Unless _you’re_ the cause of it!”

I lunged across the table to grab Guthmud by the throat, scattering dishes and glasses. Instantly my world was full of flying fists and boots...  



	15. Ordeal by Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

I came-to lying naked on cold tiles. Various bruises and wrenched joints reminded me of what had happened. Grimwald’s sneering face condensed in my field of view. He and his gang, clad in bathrobes, were standing over me, those of them that weren’t squatting down holding me stretched out. I tried to sit up but I was hauled back, hitting my head painfully on the tiles. The orcs laughed.

I looked around as best I could from the floor. We were in the empty pool of one of the pillared spa rooms, lit with flaming naphtha in dishes stood on wrought iron pedestals.

“You blackguards! What have you done with Goldberry?”

Grimwald eased his face into a slow smile. “She’s nicely taken care of, don’t you worry. She’s drugged with mandragora so she won’t know what’s happening. But right now she’s lying beneath a lovely soft pie crust. We are making Goldberry Pie out of her. She’ll be a delicious treat – after we’ve finished with you.”

I struggled, but clawing arms gripped me tightly.

“Right now, what should concern you more is what we are going to do with you, son of Gandalf! Well, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. We’re going to try out this ring which you so kindly brought us.”

He held up the fake Angrennan between thumb and forefinger and put it to his eye. “Do you really not know what this is? Or were you kidding us last night when you asked what it was – just as we were about to buy it from you for a million crowns?”

“It’s just a piece of fashion jewellery,” I exclaimed, daring him to believe the truth. “The polished stone is a mineral called haematite, 45 per cent iron...”

Grimwald laughingly shook his head from side to side. “It’s a ring of Power.”

He leaned forward and leered in my face. “It happens to come from the hand of the King of the Nazgûl! _Nine rings for Mortal Men doomed to die..._ It’s the only one of the Nine that survives. And shall I tell you what it’s going to do for _this_ mortal man, doomed to die?”

I didn’t answer. Grimwald didn’t expect me to. He continued, “It’s going to make you invisible!”

He leaned back, glancing round at his fellow gangsters, sharing a knowing smile with them. “Not that it’ll do you much good. This empty pool makes a splendid wolf-pit. In a minute we’re going to bring in a dozen wolves, wild wargs of Mirkwood if you’re keen to know, and we going to chain them to that central pillar. Then we’re all going to stand back on the pool’s edge and we are going to push you back in with poles if you try to scramble out. The whole reason for doing it here, in this nicely tiled spa room with its pool conveniently empty, is so we can hose it down afterwards and wash away all the blood. Just so the management won’t get too cross with us.”

I snorted. “I should have thought that even you would see the flaw in that little scheme. If I’m invisible, how are you going to see me to push me back?”

“If you were the bright observant lad you’re cracked up to be,” said Grimwald with heavy sarcasm, “you would have noticed that we’d slipped a long fine chain of unbreakable mithril through this ring. It is a trifle shorter than the leashes on the wargs. So in order to leave the charmed circle you’ve got to take the ring off your finger. But as soon as you do that, the wargs will spot you and bring you down, quick as a flash.”

Again Grimwald looked round at his friends for approval and they all laughed dutifully. He turned back to me. “Not that being invisible will help you all that much. It’ll give you perhaps another two minutes of life. The wargs are quite capable of catching you by smell alone.”

Grimwald rummaged in his bathrobe pocket. “Incidentally I must congratulate you on your taste in jewellery. Do you happen to know what _these_ are?” He held up my elf rings, one in either hand. “Or would you care to conjecture their composition? Adamant: 100 per cent carbon. Ruby: 99 per cent alumina...”

“They’re family heirlooms,” I said. “That’s their only value, as far as I’m concerned. Why did you bother to steal them from me? It demeans you. You could have had them for the taking once I was dead. Or are you afraid of the wargs eating them?”

He leaned forward and slipped Nenya on my left finger. “There,” he said. “Does that make you feel less naked now? Don’t let anyone say I’m not a generous man. I tell you what. If the wargs do eat them, I’ll slit their bellies open to get them back.”

He got up and walked round to the other side of me. I’d succeeded in needling his vanity, so he was actually going to give me my rings back – for the moment. It was a cheap enough gesture. “I’m rather partial to fashion jewellery myself. If it looks good, it _is_ good, I say.”

I clenched my right hand as he tried to put the other ring on my finger. Narya glowed angrily in his hand as he closed his fist around it. I didn’t want it sullied while I was still alive by being worn on the same hand as the Angrennan, even if the latter was just a copy. And I thought one cheap gesture deserved another. I wanted him to wear it. If he actually succeeded in enabling the rings of Power, there was a sporting chance it would burn his finger off.

“I’ll take back just the one,” I said, “and the other I give to you. In token of a beautiful friendship. We had some great meals together.”

Grimwald playfully flicked the ring in the air, caught it and put it on his finger. “What a sportsman! I’m going to enjoy your little performance.”

I nodded my head gravely. “One honour deserves another. I did appreciate being invested in the Grand Order of Mordor. Or was it just a sham?”

Grimwald looked pained. “Oh no – the honour was genuine. You won’t have recognised half those present, but we had most of the dignitaries of Doom City at our luncheon. We will all remember ‘Mr Overdale’ with fondness and gratitude, even though he was a trifle overcome by it all at the end. Goswedriol son of Gandalf I remember rather less fondly. I wondered if it was you the moment I saw you – but I had to make a few enquiries before I was sure.”

He had recognised the Angrennan with no trouble at all, and I fully expected him to recognise the elf rings too. But quite clearly he had not. The Three had never fallen into the Dark Lord’s hands, so even the best connected orc might not recognise them.

At a sign from Grimwald the orcs began to grease my body with fat from a pot. “Beef dripping,” he explained. “The last few days relaxing in the spa have so cleansed your pores that we’re afraid you won’t have enough body-odour for the wolves to smell you. And we don’t want them just coming up and wagging their tails, so we’ve trained them to rend to pieces carcasses rubbed in dripping. But we’ll let you put your bathrobe on again. If they make heavy weather of finding you, I’d hate you to catch your death of cold waiting.”

Then they let go of me and retired to the edge of the pool. A canvas stool was brought for Grimwald and he sat down on it, behind the circle of orcs. “Now,” he said, “if you’d kindly put on the black ring, there will be a short interlude while I do a few experiments to find out how to make you disappear. As soon as I bring these stones together we’re going to let the wolves out of their cages.”

Some of Grimwald minions began dragging in cages, each one containing a snarling warg. The cages were grouped around the central pillar and lanyards were led from them to the hands of the waiting orcs.

“Please excuse the noise my puppy-dogs are making,” said Grimwald. “They haven’t been fed for three days, so they’re ready for their dinner.”

I donned the bathrobe and crouched down, putting the tethered ring on my right hand. Grimwald opened a leather satchel of the type employed in carrying the woods used for playing bowls, and took out two palantíri, discarding the spacer keeping them apart. He held them up, one in each hand, exhibiting them to me.

“You’ll recognise this one,” he said. Then he looked at it curiously, and then at the other. “Or perhaps you won’t! They look so alike. But this is the one you sent back to Guthmud. The Ithil Stone. And this one,” he held it up, “was used by the Dark Lord himself. Contrary to what some people imagine, it was not inside Barad-Dûr when the tower fell down. It had been taken to the Black Gate in the care of my father, known to all as the Mouthpiece of Sauron, the better to scry the minds of the captains of the West.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared fixedly into first one and then the other. “Now excuse me while I try to evoke an image of the One Ring on the Dark Lord’s hand. I managed it once this afternoon. As soon as I do it again I shall touch the palantíri together and that will set up a sort of resonance which will keep the One Ring briefly in existence – at least insofar as its slave rings are concerned. With any luck you’ll disappear. Please be patient.”

“I’m happy to wait all day,” I said solemnly. Grimwald thought this a huge joke.

“You know, I’ve enjoyed your company so much I’ll miss you when you’re gone. In fact I was half thinking of letting you live, but my vicious blood lust got the better of me. Ah, here it comes now...”

He brought the palantíri in contact a trifle too sharply and they pealed like bells. Cold fire blazed out from within their hearts. Suddenly it seemed as if the room had grown dimmer. The orcs became shadows, but Grimwald stood out clear as ever. Even clearer, if that were possible. That, of course, was because he was wearing the elf ring and so had become invisible like me. I saw him carefully place the palantíri, still in contact, back in the satchel.

“Well,” he said casually, “I am disappointed. You haven’t vanished yet. I wonder if that ring you’re wearing really is a fake, as Guthmud suspects?”

He could of course see me as clearly as I could see him, because we were both in the ring-world. But because his eyes were fixed on me he didn’t realise it. To reinforce his illusion I held aloft the fake Angrennan, having snatched it from my finger, and put it mockingly to my eye, its chain dangling like a monocle.

“You idiot! Put it on again! The wolves will spot you all too soon!”

The orcs stood between Grimwald and me, holding their staves out before them. They had seen me disappear, even if Grimwald hadn’t. “Now!” one shouted. They pulled on their lanyards, catches sprung open and with a crash of chains the wargs leapt from their cages.

Simultaneously the expanding circle of wargs reached the edge of the pool and were hauled up short by the chains round their necks. Rearing on their hind legs, their snarling jaws dripping foam, they howled in fury at their tormentors, snapping at the ends of the poles as the orcs goaded them. On the word “Now!” I’d darted unseen through the orc-line and bore down upon Grimwald.

He scrambled to his feet in consternation. “Get him, you fools!”

But his companions were too busy staring into the red eyes of the wargs and didn’t think to turn round and see that their master had become invisible too. Robbed of assistance he rose to grapple with me all by himself. Holding on to one arm and the lapel of his bathrobe I flung myself onto my back, putting my foot in his stomach. Grimwald went flying over my head and into the pool. He must have fallen upon a wolf, because instantly he was submerged in a growling mass of hairy bodies. The orcs cheered with delight, thinking it was me the wolves had got.

“Agh! Get them off me!” I shouted from the floor, hoping to prevent the orcs realising the truth. I was still holding on to Grimwald’s hand, when all at once it was severed at the wrist by a single snap from powerful jaws. Instantly Grimwald came bloodily into view, an unrecognisable mass of parting flesh and ripping rags changing rapidly from white to red. The orcs roared with laughter, putting down their staves and slapping their thighs. Still invisible I scurried out of the spa room. Blood dripped from the bitten-off hand I still held. A hand, I noted with satisfaction, that amongst its other jewellery was still wearing Narya.

I stopped to remove it and put it on my right hand. Then I cursed myself for a fool. In my haste I had neglected to pick up the satchel of palantíri to take with me. I thought of going back but it was too dangerous and there was no time. I still had to find Goldberry and then we’d have to escape from the hotel, under the eyes of the Grimwald Gang. But with a bit of luck it would be some time before they realised that it was Grimwald himself that had been feasted on by wargs, not me. Of course they would be puzzled over Grimwald’s disappearance, but that too I might turn to good account, once my over-excited brain had calmed down enough to think rationally.

Still invisible I crept back to the bedroom, dropped Grimwald’s hand in the washbasin and got Glamdring out of my pack. Keeping Narya on I swapped Nenya for the palantír ring. As I had painfully discovered when Grishnakh gave me the latter, they didn’t mix on the same hand. What they would have done now that Nenya was re-activated I didn’t dare think.

Then I made my way down to the kitchens. These were located beneath the hotel in the cavern formed by the suspended foundations and the floor of the crater. There in the fierce volcanic heat I saw a solitary troll using an enormous wooden rake to push trays of bread and pies into recesses cut in the lava walls. Lava which although no longer glowing was still oven-hot – and would remain so for centuries. Always assuming the volcano didn’t erupt again in the meantime.

Inside one of these simple ovens was an exceptionally large pie, its surface crisping to a golden brown. A person-sized pie. In the centre was a decorative lump of dough shaped into a bunch of berries.

My heart thumping I seized another large rake and dragged the pie out of the oven. It tipped over the ledge and crashed to the floor, shattering the pie dish but leaving the crust intact. Immediately the troll came over to see what was happening. I realised I would have to kill him or there would be no time to rescue Goldberry from the pie before she was baked alive. If indeed she hadn’t been already. As the troll bent over the fallen pie I hewed his neck with all my strength. Any other sword than Glamdring would have rebounded in a shower of sparks from his stony flesh. But black blood spurted out and his head tipped slowly forward and fell off, smashing the pie crust.

In a frenzy I heaved the head aside and scrabbled in the wreckage of the monster pie. I encountered ice-cream. So it was a Goldberry Pie Surprise! There might yet be a chance for her...

Soon my fingers, reaching down through crumbled pie crust, troll’s gore and yellow ice-cream, felt girlish limbs. Rapidly I dug her body out of the mess, sucked ice-cream out of her mouth and tried to blow air into her lungs. Her nostrils were clear – straws had been inserted to let her breathe. For that I was immensely grateful, but I feared the hot air of the oven would have scorched her lungs. However, in her drugged and chilled condition, she seemed to have stopped breathing altogether. But I felt her heart still beating, weak slow taps beneath her left breast. Still invisible I carried her unconscious body, cold, clammy and dripping cream, to the foot of the tunnel leading up to the restaurant.

Then I heard voices! A posse of orcs was making their way down to the kitchen to collect their Goldberry Pie.

“Where’s Grimwald slipped off to? He’ll miss the fun with the girl.”

They stopped, stricken with amazement at seeing Goldberry hover unconscious in the air before coming gently to rest on the ground. Suddenly Glamdring flashed into view before their eyes, cold and blue. It was the first and last sight they had of it before their heads went rolling plock-plock down the stairs. I picked Goldberry up again and sped on my way. Soon I reached the bedroom, having left a number of wide-eyed guests gaping in the foyer. It’s not every day you see a swooning naked girl levitating up the stairs, shedding ice-cream dollops and bits of pie crust.

My brief skirmish in the kitchens would soon raise the alarm unless I did something about it. Rapidly I ran the warm waterfall into the bath and lowered Goldberry’s sleeping form into it, before taking off my rings and seizing a bathrobe. Then I hurried back down to the foyer, making vigorous show of panic, banging my fists on the receptionist’s desk.

“You’ve got to do something! Orcs are fighting in the kitchen and they’re beginning to chop each other’s heads off!”

“Ugh!” said the girl in disgust. “They’re always doing that!” She got to her feet and dashed into the back offices to get help. I turned and before anyone could stop me to ask what it was all about ran back up to the bedroom. There was still no pursuit. Grimwald’s gang couldn’t yet have fathomed what had happened.

In the bath Goldberry was beginning to come round. Being immortal she was made of sterner stuff than I’d given her credit for. I chafed her limbs and worked the greasy ice-cream off her pure white skin. Still refusing to open her eyes she took a deep breath, groaned and slid her arms round my neck.

“No time for that, pet! We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Why?” she murmured drowsily. “We’ve missed checkout time for today. And I was just beginning to unwind...”  



	16. Fast-Track Checkout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

As soon as Goldberry had recovered sufficiently we were ready to go.

“How do we get out of here without being seen?” she said.

“The easiest way will be if these rings still work,” I replied. “With a bit of luck the palantíri are still in contact. It may not occur to anyone to part them. Here – which one do you want to put on?”

“Oh, just give me any one.”

“I’ll give you Nenya. I’ll hang on to Dad’s. Grimwald was wearing it when the wolves ate him. That might have magically contaminated it. So perhaps I’d better wear it rather than you, since you’ve never worn it before.”

We both put on the elf rings. “I can still see you,” said Goldberry. “Perhaps they aren’t working.”

“No – that’s because we are in the same invisible world. I explained all that with Grimwald. Now if I take my ring off I shouldn’t be able to see you.”

I pulled off Nenya and my heart sank. Goldberry looked just as solid as ever. “Damn! They’ve parted the palantíri!”

“Not necessarily,” said Goldberry. “I recall Tom saying that the rings had no power over us. And I also remember when Frodo was at our house he once put the ring on without telling us. Neither Tom nor I could see any difference. So I’ll be able to see you whether or not Narya is working.”

“It probably works the other way round too. Nenya won’t make you invisible either.” I sat down hard on the bed. “So that’s not a lot of use! Now what do we do?”

“Maybe the ring is making you invisible...” Goldberry put her fingers to her lips. “How can we tell?”

“I don’t know! I’ll have to go down to the foyer again and see if I bump into people. But that’s too risky...”

I snapped my fingers. “I know!” I dashed into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Sure enough I could see no reflection. “Come here a minute, pet,” I called.

She came and stood by my side, putting her arm round my waist. “Everything looks normal to me,” she said.

“But I can’t see myself – and I can see you perfectly well. You do look silly standing there with your arm stuck out.”

She elbowed me in the ribs.

“Well, that’s a relief,” I gasped. “The palantíri are still in contact. But how long for?”

“You could go back to the spa room and fetch them. Then you’d be sure...”

“No – far too risky. And they’re heavy things – they’d weigh us down. And it still doesn’t solve the problem of what to do about _you_!”

“I need a disguise... I know!” Goldberry pounced on my pack and started unlacing it. “Did you bring my long green dress? And my yellow wig?”

“I did. I was hoping you’d get a chance to wear them. I did want to see you in them again.”

“Well, I’ll wear them now. I’ll simply walk out the door looking like myself. That should bamboozle everybody.”

I put my hands on my hips. “That is such a silly idea it might even work. I’ll stay close to your side, ready to draw Glamdring. And if anybody tries to stop you I’ll cut them down.”

“I’ve never heard of anything so desperate! And what’s going to happen when we get the bottom of the ropeway? I suppose they’ve ‘repaired’ it by now?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead. Let’s do one thing at a time.”

Swiftly she donned her shimmering green dress and her yellow wig – and she was once more the Goldberry I knew long ago. And loved... though I’d never had the courage to tell Tom that.

“There! How do I look?”

“Ravishing! I wish you’d wear that dress more often. It’s my favourite.”

“It was Tom’s favourite too. But I must say it’s a bit tight round the middle. Must be all that ice-cream.”

“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll help you work it all off again.” She snatched the metal cup out of my pack and threw it at me.

“Come on – no time to fool around. Now for it!”

Down in the foyer, it became clear that Goldberry would only draw attention to herself if she marched out the main door all by herself. Nothing if not quick-witted, she slipped her hand under the elbow of an elderly lady who was shuffling towards the door.

“Let me help you the last few yards,” she said. “All these people rushing to and fro, they don’t look where they’re going.”

The old lady stared round at her and smiled. “I don’t need help, thank you my dear. I’m a hundred years old if I’m a day. You young people have no idea...”

“You’re looking very healthy I must say,” replied Goldberry. “Did you enjoy your stay here?”

“I’m not leaving yet. I just thought I’d have a sniff of air outside. It’s so stuffy in here.”

“Oh, we’re just on our way down to the ropeway. Have you seen the view from there? It’s splendid...”

“ _We_?" said the old woman, stopping with a jerk and looking round. “I can only see you...”

A well-dressed man came up and laid his hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “Now, grandma, where d’you think you’re going?”

“I was just on my way down to the ropeway with this young lady and her companion – who seems to have disappeared for the moment...”

“No, grandma, you’re not to go straying outside. There are some nasty drops out there – and I’m afraid of somebody making off with you again and stealing all your jewels.” He treated Goldberry to a none-too-friendly look.

“I am sorry,” said Goldberry. “I was under the impression your grandmother wanted to take a breath of fresh air...”

“There is no fresh air in East Ithilien,” the man snapped. “She’s better off inside, where the air is at least filtered. And just who _are_ you, may I ask?”

I glanced around. People were beginning to look at Goldberry.

“I’m...” She didn’t want to say her name out loud. “I’m one of the staff here. I’m – I’m employed to render assistance to guests in the lobby...”

Two hefty uruks appeared on either side of her and put their claws on her shoulders. I recognised them for Grimwald’s myrmidons. “Staff, eh? How convenient. Well – we’ve got a little job for you. Do you mind...?” They nodded to the old lady and her grandson, spun Goldberry around and marched her off.

I followed close behind. They led Goldberry away down one of the side corridors leading to the spas. There was no time for this sort of diversion. I would have to do something. As soon as we were out of sight of the lobby I said sharply “Goldberry – _down_!”

The two uruks spun round. Goldberry obligingly dropped to the ground and as she did so Glamdring swept off the heads of her captors in a single blow.

“That wasn’t very clever!” she said. “Now you’ve got blood all over my best dress.”

Grabbing her arm and hauling her to her feet I dashed back with her towards the lobby. Behind us we heard screams – someone had discovered the bodies. It was hopeless to make a dash for it through the front door. We’d be stopped before we could get into one of the cable cars. Feverishly I cast about me for an exit – any exit – from the hotel.

“I know,” I cried, recalling what Snargy had told me. “The rubbish chute! It’s down in the kitchen!”

We scampered through the lobby and I led the way back down to the kitchens from which I’d rescued Goldberry scarcely an hour earlier.

“How do we find the rubbish chute? We won’t have time to go hunting around.”

“How’s your sense of direction?”

“Not very good underground,” admitted Goldberry. “I’m not used to being in the middle of a volcano. I’m a woodland person, me.”

“Well I’m not too bad,” I said. “A wizard should know which way is North at any moment of the day, over hill or under hill. I got through that part of the training at least.”

“Why is that going to help us find the rubbish chute?”

“Because whenever orcs build a rubbish chute, they always make it point due West.”

“Why?”

“Pure spite. The Elves point their rubbish chutes East.”

We were nearly at the bottom of the steps. Someone had cleared away the dead orcs. I wondered if they’d got the troll out too. That would take them longer, I guessed. Too heavy for even four people to carry. Too stony to cut up.

“Right, follow me!” Once in the blistering heat of the kitchen I made for the western wall. The rubbish chute was easy to spot – a two foot wide hole in the wall with rubbish lying in piles beside it, ready for tipping down. A vast cauldron of water stood seething beside the hole. I guessed it was used to scald the chute to prevent smells drifting back into the kitchen. Looking over my shoulder I saw the body of the troll still lying where I’d left it. But the pie mess was gone.

A dozen or so orcs spotted us and howled. At least, they spotted Goldberry. I thrust her head-first into the chute and threw my pack in after her. I was about to dive in too when I had the sense to step aside. The ring was still working, so they couldn’t see me. If I drew Glamdring and started hacking their heads off they might all flee in different directions, making it difficult for me to catch them all. If just one of them escaped he’d rapidly fetch help. Almost certainly they had some means of signalling to the bottom. A stretched cord, or a voice-tube.

The orcs came running up and peered down the chute after Goldberry. Then, almost without having to think about it, they picked up staves and slid them through rings round the top of the cauldron. This they lifted up and staggered with it to the chute. If I didn’t do something fast I would only have saved Goldberry from being baked alive in order to be boiled.

Fetching up a wooden rake I lunged at the backs of the legs of the nearest orc. As the cauldron went down on top of him with a clang I hopped up onto it and dived head-first into the hole. Behind me the screams of the scalded orcs came echoing down the tube.

The chute was slippery with grease and cabbage juice and I rapidly picked up speed. Hurtling down in the darkness I tried calling out to Goldberry in front of me, but I got no answer. She'd had nearly ten seconds' start on me. I had no idea what sort of reception to expect at the bottom – whether we would go tumbling into a cess-pit, or into the arms of Grimwald’s men. I had to be ready for anything.

After what seemed like an age I shot suddenly into the daylight. The pile of kitchen slops I ploughed into made a soft landing. We were out in the open and there were orcs all around. Two of them had picked Goldberry up out of the rubbish and were dusting potato peelings off her shoulders – her dress was now quite ruined and she’d lost her wig.

I was just about to lay about me with Glamdring, cutting down orcs left right and centre, when I spotted Grishnakh among them. GUB had arrived in force.  



	17. Dawn Raid on Minas Ithil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

Back at the police station in Doom City we sat in fresh clothes in one of the interrogation rooms, sipping camomile tea. I had my arm around Goldberry, who snuggled up close to me and couldn’t stop shuddering.

Grishnakh sat across the desk and we pondered what to do next. Right now Guthmud would be making his way back to Minas Ithil to launch the kidnap attempt.

“Imalad and Elandrine are the biggest puzzle,” I said. “Imalad told me he was travelling back to Minas Tirith to make final arrangements.”

“Did he now,” pondered Grishnakh. “Well, I’d be surprised if he doesn’t go to Minas Ithil first. Our intelligence tells us he’s one of the plotters – and from what you’ve told me he’s suborned Lady Elandrine too.”

“I can’t believe that of Elandrine,” protested Goldberry. “She’s as crystal clear as a mountain stream – not a drop of guile in her. Totally loyal to her mistress the Queen.”

“M-mm,” said Grishnakh doubtfully. “Perhaps Imalad’s been telling her some tale or other. He’s clearly a double-agent. He gives the impression he means to thwart the kidnap attempt on his own account... but only time will tell if that’s the case.”

“So you’re certain he’s going to stick to Guthmud?”

“They’re not travelling together. Imalad checked out immediately after breakfast, as he told you he would. Guthmud waited till your little send-off party, but left soon afterwards with the palantíri and the fake ring, which without a doubt he’s now convinced is genuine. He hasn’t parted the palantíri because he doesn’t want to risk losing contact with the Ruling Ring. Did you see him there when you fed Grimwald to the wolves?”

“He was probably there but I didn’t notice. I had other things on my mind. But he was at the send-off banquet. Have the gang found out yet that Grimwald’s dead?”

“No, but they’re mighty puzzled by his disappearance. The gang think you’re dead, but they know Gee has escaped. In fact they’re pretty impressed by that feat. The gangsters we’ve interrogated admit they’ve seriously underestimated you all along, Miss Gee. So you’re a marked woman – if you weren’t already! You’re not planning on going back to Minas Ithil and taking up where you left off, are you?”

Goldberry gave me a tiny kiss on the ear. “No, I’m staying with Goss.”

Grishnakh looked at us from one to the other. I could see he still wasn’t happy about Goldberry.

“How long do you think it will take Guthmud to get back home?” I asked him.

“Longer than it’s going to take _us_. We’re only fifty miles from Minas Ithil here, via Spider Pass. It’s an easy journey these days with the new ropeway – you don’t have to use the Stair any more to make the descent into Ithil Vale.”

“But is that the way he’s gone?”

“It’s the way Imalad has gone. He was spotted passing through around midday. I guess by now he’s in Minas Ithil, waiting for Guthmud to arrive.”

“On the other hand it’s a perfectly good way to go if he was heading straight for Minas Tirith like he told me.”

“We’ll see. But as for Guthmud I very much doubt it’s the way _he’s_ gone. He knows we watch Spider Pass, so he’s probably gone via Udûn and he’ll be well past the Iron Gate of Isenmouthe by now. It’s much harder to watch the Morannon – the traffic through it is enormous. But it’s a 180 mile journey round that way. Even on his fire horse he won’t arrive back at Minas Ithil until some time tomorrow. If we mount a dawn raid on his headquarters on Saturday we’ll be in plenty of time to nab him and stop the kidnap. That’s if they’re keeping to their schedule – the one you got from them.”

Grishnakh had been delighted when I presented Grimwald’s hand to him. With stunning professionalism he said that, apart from a pinky ring for Ratbog’s mam, he’d leave all the jewellery on it – it wouldn’t look anywhere near as impressive without it. Now that Grimwald had been eliminated at long last, and most of his gang rounded up at Hotel Doom, he maintained that Ratbog’s death hadn’t been altogether in vain. He waved aside my expressions of regret, saying it wasn’t me that was meant to be looking after Ratbog but the other way round. Anyway I’d had my work cut out looking after myself, not to mention Goldberry. He bade me keep the palantír ring as a souvenir.

“If you go on bringing me gifts like this,” he said, holding up Grimwald’s hand by the little finger, “I’ll soon have enough body-parts for a whole new person!”

 

 

 

We were making the final preparations to descend on Minas Ithil in force. “Would you like to be in on this?” asked Grishnakh. “Don’t feel you have to – we can handle it all by ourselves. But I thought you might like some excitement after lounging around in Hotel Doom with your feet up.”

“I ought to keep my hand in. The last few days have convinced me my swordplay’s getting a little rusty.”

“Er... I’d rather you didn’t use Glamdring.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for a start I don’t want you waving that thing near me. And you’ll make yourself conspicuous, flashing blue fire all over the place. Can’t you just see the headlines in the _Ithil Mercury_? ‘BEATER spotted in GUB raid!’ It’ll spread alarm and despondency among the populace... and it won’t reflect well on our boys if we’ve had to call in Beater, of all things.” (“Beater” was how the orcs had known Glamdring since time out of mind.)

I had to admit Grishnakh had a point.

“Anyway Glamdring’s too good for the likes of this lot,” said Grishnakh. “Use one of our weapons. How about this one? It’s an auto pea-shooter. It fires a stream of missiles like tiny corkscrews. When one hits you it screws itself through the flesh, looking for a blood vessel. Then it launches itself into the bloodstream and docks in one or other of the vital organs. Then it explodes. Don’t stand too close – it’s messy.”

“How long does _that_ take to act?”

“Oh... one or two seconds at most. Three or four. A bit slower if your target is lying down resting. But they so rarely are.”

“I’m sorry but I want something to stop an orc that’s rushing headlong at me.”

“It’s not much good for that,” agreed Grishnakh reluctantly. “It’s really only meant for shooting people in the back when they’re running away. But that’s all I want you to do. Leave the confrontation to us. As I said, we can handle it all by ourselves...”

“No, give me a proper weapon – or I’ll use Glamdring.”

Grishnakh sighed. “This is what you need then. A fire-blaster. It will skin your opponent in a split-second at five yards.”

 

 

 

We trickled into Minas Ithil in twos and threes, so as not to attract attention. Grishnakh’s orcs were all in position as the first light of dawn came up from behind the Ephel Duath and began stealing across the sky. Since I knew the whereabouts of Guthmud’s office I had chosen to be part of the first wave of attackers in order to lead the way.

A green light shot up into the sky, trailing a thin shivering string of smoke. As it hovered spinning at its zenith, it disappeared in a brilliant flash. A second later a mighty bang pounded the sleeping city. This was our signal to go in.

As lights began coming on one-by-one in the surrounding houses we stormed the doors and windows of the weaver’s cottages. “Open in the King’s name!” shouted Grishnakh, directing a jet of fire through a shattered window. I couldn’t imagine who’d dare to come and unlock the door to let us in. But by law it was something Grishnakh had to say.

Earlier he had admitted to me he was putting his job on the line in mounting such a massive raid beyond the borders of the Mandate – in the very lands of the Steward of Gondor, of all people. But I promised to make it all right with Faramir when I saw him next. The very fact that I had taken part in the raid would stop him coming down too hard on Grishnakh.

The factory floor of the palantír works was empty except for a few orcs sleeping on benches, a skeleton staff to see all was well during the night. Grishnakh’s raiders promptly reduced them to skeletons, which briefly glowed before crumbling to powder.

So far as we knew, Guthmud lived over the premises. As we charged up the stairs we met our first serious resistance. Arrows began to rain down upon us. As each one found its mark it spouted flame with a yap like a puppy dog. I stood my ground and fired my blaster up the stairs and the arrows stopped. But on reaching the top I could see no bodies, incinerated or otherwise. The arrows must have been released by some automatic mechanism. I turned and warned the orcs following me to go carefully in case of more booby-traps.

Guthmud’s gangsters began to emerge from the bedrooms and levelled their crossbows at us. But they were no match for our weapons and we were taking no prisoners. We scoured the entire upstairs of the premises, bursting into each bedroom and spraying it liberally with fire. But of Guthmud there was no sign.

Picking my way back downstairs through the smoke and ruin I located Guthmud’s office. The door was locked and it was dark inside. I smashed the frosted glass pane with the butt of my blaster and tossed in a flare, flinging myself back against the wall in case someone inside replied with fire. I heard a child’s voice commence wailing.

Raising my hand to warn my companions to keep well back I kicked open the shattered door and leapt in.

Two sights met my eyes. The first was Snargy, cowering beneath the desk, terrified of the flare which had landed close beside him. Dropping my blaster I rushed over to pick him up and clasped him firmly. Then I turned and took a long hard look at the second sight.

It was the drooping body of Guthmud, impaled on the snapped shaft of his own hat-stand.

“What in the name of Elbereth has happened?” I cried in the ear of the sobbing boy on my shoulder. But all I could get out of him was “Imalad... Imalad...!”

 

 

 

The Headless Horseman still being out of action, our little group sat in the bistro I’d discovered the night I’d confiscated the palantír from Snargy. Goldberry came up and joined us.

“Well I must say you guys made a hell of a mess back there. The whole town’s buzzing! Was it necessary to go in with such a bang?”

“In hindsight – no,” said Grishnakh, sitting slumped over a beer. “But we had no idea what to expect. Better to go in with too big a force than too little.”

Goldberry sat down beside a subdued Snargy, giving him a hug and stroking his greasy hair. The little lad was ploughing manfully through a giant ice-cream smothered in raspberries. Clearly it was going to take a lot longer this time for him to get over his bad experience.

“We weren’t planning on taking any prisoners...” muttered Grishnakh.

“Well, I’m glad you made an exception for one tiny one,” replied Goldberry. “How did he end up in there?”

“He never strays far from where his father is,” I said. “He’s not saying anything yet, but it’s my guess he was hiding under the desk when it all happened. He probably saw everything. Imalad, as I know to my cost, is a lot stronger than he looks.”

“But to pick up Guthmud bodily and impale him on his own hat-stand like a butterfly on a pin – that takes some doing!” said Grishnakh.

Glancing meaningfully down at the child I screwed up my eyes and held my finger to my lips. But Snargy, taking a breath between two mouthfuls, said unmistakably, “that’s just what he did.”

Goldberry gave him another hug. I tried probing him with questions, now he’d started talking, but the ice-cream had once more claimed his whole attention. I gave it up as a bad job.

I turned to Grishnakh. “What have your orcs found so far?”

He shook his head. “No sign of the wain which the kidnappers were supposed to be planning to use. There’s Guthmud’s fire horse still in the garage downstairs. You’d have thought he’d have had it outside and waiting if he was going to Minas Tirith with the kidnappers. Or perhaps he was planning to travel in the wain? ...Odd, that. Guthmud liked his comfort. And a wain’s no fun to go far in, as you’ll agree.”

“I suppose the fire horse is cooked to a crisp?”

“No. My orcs missed doing that somehow. Why?”

“I don’t know. It may come in handy.”

 

 

 

By nightfall GUB had made a meticulous search of the ashes of Guthmud’s headquarters, turning up precisely nothing. Grishnakh and I sat in Guthmud’s office, the only room still habitable. The corpse on the hat-stand had been taken away for forensic analysis.

I said, “It looks very much to me as if Imalad has single-handedly wiped out the entire kidnap team. He did say he was planning something.”

Grishnakh sucked at his curly pipe. “Well, I suspect treachery, pure and simple. He’d never have got out of here alive if he’d killed Guthmud, unless it was done in secret.” He sighed in exasperation. “But where’s the wain? That’s what I want to know.”

“Halfway to Minas Tirith,” said a little voice under the desk. I peered down to take a look.

“Snargy! – I was just wondering where you’d got to!” Not having a great deal of presence he’d slipped into the office with us unnoticed and had taken up his familiar station beneath his father’s huge desk. “So the kidnap is underway after all, is it?”

“Oh yes. Dad thought it was just some last minute arrangements when Imalad asked to speak to him alone. They didn’t quarrel. Imalad broke the stand and just picked dad up...” His voice tailed off.

“Then I suppose he made excuses for Guthmud to the others and calmly went off to command the wain? When did it all happen?”

“Last night after supper. The wain’s on its way. They were going to stop over in Osgiliath and stay in bed all today sleeping. Then they’re going to ride the wain all through the night, to get to Minas Tirith by tomorrow morning bright and early.”

I leapt to my feet. “Then what am I doing here, just sitting around?”

“Snargy,” said Grishnakh, “who’s in the wain? Your dad’s gang... and Imalad?”

“Yes. The gang don’t know dad’s dead yet. They’ve taken the palantíri with them – and the black ring.”

My mind was in a whirl. What on earth was Imalad planning to do? Why take the palantíri and the ring? Just for appearance’s sake? Imalad _knew_ the ring was a fake – I’d told him so. Or didn’t he believe me?

Perhaps he never believed me... or perhaps he had at the time, but Guthmud subsequently persuaded him that the ring actually worked? After all – Guthmud had seen me vanish before his very eyes!

I passed my hand across my brow. The whole notion was absurd. If either Imalad or Guthmud had doubted the ring for one moment, they could have done a simple test. They could have put it on!

Unless neither of them wanted to be seen putting it on – and disappearing? Or _not_ disappearing, as the case may be? I was pretty sure they hadn’t trusted each other one bit. And for good reason, it had transpired. But might Imalad have murdered Guthmud simply to get hold of the Angrennan? ...To hell with the kidnap plan – it was the perfect opportunity?

And then another thought struck me. One with such stunning implications that I had to grasp the desk to steady myself.

What if Faramir had given me the _real_ Angrennan? What if he’d _known_ that? Or what if he didn’t – but Lady Éowyn did? Might they just have simply made a silly mistake at some time or other, and got the rings mixed up? What if they’d been duped into swapping the rings around? ...But by whom? And how?

Morfindel? Or... or...

I knelt down on one knee in front of Snargy. “Look – go and find Gee and tell her she’s to follow behind me to Minas Tirith however she can and to bring you along with her. I’m going to take your dad’s fire horse and try and catch the wain up.”

He was weeping now. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks. “Take me with you! Don’t leave me here...!”

“No. Too dangerous. Gee will look after you.” I struck my clenched fist into my open palm. “There’s something I’ve _got to know...!_ ”

As I stumbled to my feet I saw Grishnakh staring at me open-mouthed, as if I’d gone quite mad.

 

 

 

Down in the cellar Grishnakh was still eyeing me doubtfully. “Have you actually ridden a fire horse before?”

“It’s all right. Guthmud showed me over this one and explained it to me, the very first time I met him. He said it was just like riding a normal horse.”

“Well... it is and it isn’t. It’s certainly fast enough to catch up the wain. But don’t let it overheat.”

“Guthmud told me about that.”

I picked the cresset off the wall and lit the flame inside the skull.

“Well, I see you know how to start it. But do you know how to _stop_ it?”

“Blow it out. Like this...?” I took a deep breath. Grishnakh screwed up his face and twitched his head from side to side.

“ _Unk-unk!_ ”

“Well how, then?”

“Button on the dashboard, marked _ghâsh_.”

“Fine! But it can’t be too different from a live horse. It’s not as if I want to look after it properly...”

“No but you want to get there, don’t you?”

Two GUB agents opened the big double-doors. I mounted up on the saddle. “Any other last hints?” I snapped impatiently.

“Be careful going downhill. Keep it in _canter_ all the way – don’t be tempted to switch to _gallop_.” He smacked the horse’s rump. It didn’t even quiver.

I flicked the reins and the fire horse took off like an arrow.

 

 

 

I was so intent on catching up with the wain that I totally forgot to keep an eye on the red light on the dashboard. The first sign of trouble was when the horse stopped dead and refused to budge. I nearly went head-first over the flaming skull.

I looked down. The red light was winking furiously. Beneath the saddle I could feel a rumbling, as if I was sitting on the lid of a cauldron. Suddenly yellow-green smoke started pouring from the horse’s ears. I knew I had no more than a second to get off. With one foot in the stirrup I swung my other leg over and in a single motion hurled myself face down onto the grassy bank.

With a roar like a sick child belching up its dinner the fire horse flew to shreds. I looked up. Steaming horsemeat lay strewn about. Entrails festooned the trees. I was covered in blood and filth.

I picked myself up and cursed furiously. Now I had lost the wain. I didn’t bother to collect the pieces – the force of the blast had largely cleared them from the path. Moodily kicking a loose hoof into the ditch I started to trudge the weary miles to Osgiliath.

 

 

 

The sun was up when I arrived at my garden gate. I was still trailing blood and dollops of goo. Legolas was there, putting his spare annuals in my herbaceous border. He looked at me in horror.

“ _Ai-ee!_ Whatever happened to you?”

“Bloody fire horse blew up on me.”

“Serves you right for riding such things.” Legolas got up and brushed his breeches. “Wait out here and I’ll fetch the hose and give you a good hose down before you go indoors.”

He was as good as his word and presently I was drying myself down in front of the fire he had lit for me. Since I’d arrived back home I’d been tongue-tied and shuddering violently until the hot water calmed me. In spite of the urgency I went along with whatever Legolas would have me do, watching mutely as he fetched soap and towels, tub and ewer and filled the cauldron with water. I knew Bess wouldn’t let me near her if I had the slightest drop of horse blood on me.

Legolas knew where I kept my mead and I saw he’d poured us two goblets whilst I was in the bath. “Now take it nice and easy,” he said. “Tell me just what’s been happening.”

“No time for that,” I cried. “Something terrible has befallen! Legolas – look at me!”

I took Nenya from its cord around my neck and put it on my finger, instantly taking it off again. Legolas leapt to his feet. His eyes showed their whites all round.

“You vanished from my sight! Nenya is alive once more! What can it mean?”

“It means by now the Queen has been kidnapped – and the King himself is in peril of his life!”

Legolas froze to a statue in an attitude of dismay. I caught hold of his shoulders.

“Legolas, grab your bow and tell Gimli to fetch his axe. I’ll saddle up Bess – she’ll manage the three of us. We ride to Minas Tirith! The King has need of us!”

 

 

 

The City was in uproar. We entered the Citadel unchallenged. Guards were rushing this way and that, in stark contrast to their usual serene poise. Bergil’s office was locked. I caught the arm of a passing guard and asked him where Bergil was.

“Captain Bergil is nowhere to be found!” cried the man, before shaking off my hand and rushing away.

Nobody appeared to know where the King was either, though he had been popping up in unexpected places. “I last saw him down by the Gate,” volunteered one frantic equerry. Eventually we located him on his hands and knees at the portal of the White Tower, conducting a thorough examination of the scene-of-crime.

“Aragorn!” cried Legolas, oblivious of protocol – which wasn’t appropriate anyway.

“Legolas!” cried the King, staggering to his feet. “Gimli! And Goss too! Thank the Stars you’re here!” As he embraced the three of us in turn, his regal composure deserted him and tears ran down his cheeks.

Quickly we compared notes. The kidnap had been carried out exactly as planned. It was not until midday that anything had been reported amiss.

“Where’s Bergil?”

“Can’t find him anywhere,” said Aragorn. “Imalad’s in charge.”

“Sire! Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Of course it is. Give him a bit of responsibility. Needs it.”

The three friends made rapid plans. Aragorn was determined to overtake the wain before it reached the Tower of Orthanc. Leaving me to continue investigating the scene-of-crime, the King mounted his horse. Legolas and Gimli clambered back up on Bess and out they all rode in pursuit.  



	18. In the Dungeons of the Tower of Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

No sooner had the King and his two friends, once more in their own minds just plain Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli as of old, clattered out of the Great Gate and galloped away up the North Road, than I became aware of a detachment of guards standing behind me. I turned and met the steely eyes of Imalad.

“Arrest this man! For the murder of Morfindel son of Gollum!”

Guards gripped me firmly with strong hands.

“Why, you – bastard!”

“Less of that! When we all get our write-ups in _Who’s Who_ , you’re the bastard, remember?”

If I could only break free for a moment and get my hand in my breeches pocket for Narya, I might be able to escape unseen. But my arms were securely pinioned. As the guards marched me away to the Citadel guardroom I heard Imalad saying, “Search him for concealed weapons, magic rings, anything he could use to escape. This man is dangerous – and desperate!”

In no time at all I found myself in the dungeons. Not the most comfortable of cells either – it didn’t boast any sort of window, barred or otherwise. They had issued me with one candle... and they told me to make it last.

The Tower of Guard can be harsh, but it’s not gratuitously cruel. There was no question about me not being allowed to keep my pipe, tinder box and pouch full of pipe-weed. That is, after the weed had all been tipped out on the guardroom counter and prodded well. So, there being nothing to read, and no light to read by, I settled down with my pipe in the dark for a puff and a ponder.

 

 

 

The guard, an old bristly-cheeked family man of retirement age, put his face to the grill. “Got a visitor for you, young man. Little orc lad. Do you want to see him?”

“I thought you weren’t permitting me any visitors.”

“He says he’s from GID. That can’t be true of course. But I’ll let him in, if you like.”

GID was the orc charity which went around placing lucky charms in hotel bedrooms and distributing them to prisoners. “All right,” I said. “Tell him I’ll buy one of his lucky charms.”

The door opened a crack and a skinny little person was let in. It was Snargy. Both our faces lit up at seeing each other, but I nodded towards the grille and we muffled our joy.

“Well, what have you got to sell me?”

“Hold out your hand and shut your eyes.”

I did so. He dropped something jingling into my palm which instantly started growing hot. I looked. It was Nenya – and the palantír ring! I looked up at the door. The guard had left us alone.

“How did you get hold of these?” I hissed.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Snargy shuffled and put on a defiant look. “Nicked ‘em.”

“Where from?”

“From the guardroom counter. Nobody pays any attention to me. People were just falling over me up there so I thought I’d come down and see you.”

“You little villain, you! You fabulous, splendid, little villain!”

I saw a face moving behind the grill. I winked and said, “How much you want for them?”

“A crown.”

I reached into my pocket for the money. They’d left me some – people came round selling food from time to time, which was handy if you wanted to augment the prison diet.

“I thought you did these things for friendship,” I said, meaning to tease him a bit.

“I sell rings for money,” he said solemnly. “Like you do.”

 

 

 

After the second meal tray was pushed through a flap in the wall, from which event I judged that about eight hours had passed, it crossed my mind to try looking in the palantír ring. I had put the rings on, one on each hand – they got pretty hot if I kept them both in the same pocket – but I hadn’t expected the palantír ring to work in the dark.

It did! Even better than in the light. Gimli had a palantír ring – he was into all the latest gadgets. I wished hard. Presently his round bearded face swam into view.

“Gimli son of Glóin at your service, and your family’s.”

“Goss Gandalfsson at yours, and yours. Boy! Am I glad to see you! Imalad’s had me thrown in gaol!”

“We’ll soon have you out of there when we’re back! But it won’t be tonight, I’m afraid. Or tomorrow. We’ve got some serious tracking to do.” He sounded tired.

“Gimli – what’s happened? Have you caught up with the wain?”

“Yes... we’ve caught up with it all right. Or rather – we’ve come across it. Burnt-out.”

“Where’s the Queen?” I almost shrieked.

Gimli was slow to answer. “That’s what Aragorn’s trying to find out. He’s been spending a lot of time examining every blade of grass around the ashes. He keeps moaning that all his old tracking skills have deserted him, but he can see a lot more than I or even Legolas can. So we’re just sitting around while he gets on with it. There’s dead orcs everywhere.”

“Where _are_ you?”

“In Grey Wood. About twenty miles north of Minas Tirith, within sight of Amon Dín. The wain had pulled off the main road and was trying to use the old Stonewain Road. It’s now disused and mostly forgotten and it runs through dense woodland which grows right up to the ancient paved way. They were trying to throw off any likely pursuit, of course. About a hundred yards down the road it was attacked. The carpet lies unrolled by the roadside. Whether the kidnappers did that, to let their prisoner get some air and maybe play with her a bit, or the victorious attackers unrolled the carpet, we don’t know yet. Hang on – there are people coming out of the wood...”

Gimli’s face vanished from the crystal hemisphere.

My heart pounded. There was a metallic taste in my mouth. I vividly recalled the face of Arwen close to mine the last time we had met, her lips brushing my cheek. How I wished I’d been kinder to her! But at the time, tracking down the killer of the King’s catamite had seemed so much more important.

Well, I’d been amply repaid for that. Here I was, imprisoned in the dark, unable to do a thing to help, no nearer finding a solution to the murder, and actually being accused of it myself.

Imalad, I knew, would try and get the trial over and done with before the King returned. By the Ancient Law of Gondor, at once stern but never cruel, having no desire to keep the condemned man waiting for days, weeks, years... the death penalty has to be carried out within one hour of sentence being passed, or else it becomes null and void. Never again would I look upon my three friends’ faces in the flesh – I still thought of the King as my friend.

Then I stopped feeling sorry for myself and thought again of Arwen. I needed no palantír ring to see her – the spectre of her lovely face gazed at me reproachfully out of the dark. For her, it was out of the frying pan into the fire! The kidnappers had at least been taking her to a place of safety, where I’d imagined – I’d hoped – she would have been pampered and cosseted, albeit a prisoner. But if bandits had fallen upon her wain, or renegade orcs, then what fate could she expect now? She was as good as dead, if not lying dead in the woods already.

The curse which afflicted her mother had descended upon her too. I wondered if it was life’s recompense for being far too lovely – too achingly beautiful.

Arwen! Arwen Undómiel! Were the stars really so jealous?

It was a futile question – I’d never get the chance to ask them now. I would never see them again. Was this just my personal loss I was mourning? I wouldn’t mourn for long. For me the stars had set for the last time. But for everybody else they would rise as usual on the following eve. Yet my loss was small compared to the loss suffered by Middle Earth. The Kingdom of Elves and Men would mourn for longer. For them – their Evenstar had set for ever.

And then my sorrow began slowly to break up like spring ice into cold terror. I thought of her brothers at Imladris: Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond. They were nothing if not hot-headed – it was not unknown for them to slash heads off first and ask questions afterwards. Whoever turned out to be the perpetrators of this awful crime – far more awful than the one I was investigating, which after all was only a scheming royal hanger-on getting his come-uppance – the world would never be the same again.

It would mean war. A war far more bitter, if that were possible, than the war of fifty years ago, the War of the Rings. Now elves and men and orcs, and unavoidably dwarves too, would fall upon each other’s throats with a bitterness that only brothers can display. Orcs and men, and elves and dwarves, may feel no sense of brotherhood towards each other – yet they are truly brothers in life, a brotherhood they share with all living things. And soon many of them would be united in the brotherhood of death.

Fifty years ago, elves and men had been fighting for the cause of Good against the empire of Evil. But now it would not be a war of Good against Evil, with the good guys winning in the end. It would be a war between peoples who were neither good nor bad. Too bad for heaven but too good for hell, destroying each other with a bitterness that would go on and on. Because it could never be resolved. When the cause is Vengeance, there is no bargaining possible, no negotiation, no splitting the difference, no settling for less for the sake of peace.

I looked in the palantír ring once more and I saw the face of Aragorn. Whether it was an image from the present, or the past, I had no way of telling – he was not opting to communicate with me. He himself had no palantír ring. But whether it was the present time, or fifty years ago, it was the same careworn face, the same anxious frown, the same noble brow burdened with the tale of ages.

He was kneeling down, turning blades of grass this way and that. The grass slipped through his fingers, and I could see in his mind’s eye the dream slipping through his fingers too. The lovely dream which had all come true, as he’d told me himself. Yet here it was, fading – slipping beyond his grasp – as surely as if it were a spectre from another world, a world never seen by waking eyes.

 

 

 

I have spent some pretty bad nights in my life, but that night was the low-point. I don’t know how long I slept, but I came to, in the dark, lying on the cold stone slabs, the palantír ring pulsating on my finger.

“Gimli here! Goss, you sluggard! I’ve been trying to raise you for ages!”

“What’s happened?” I sobbed.

“We’ve just taken leave of Ghân-buri-Ghân-buri-Ghân’s people. It was they who were coming out of the wood when I had to break off. They were not initially disposed to be friendly – they’d been badly scared by what they’d witnessed. But when Aragorn introduced himself as King Elessar they bowed down before him and treated him as a god. They don’t forget that he gifted them this wood in perpetuity, out of gratitude for their help half a century ago. Even if we do.

“Aragorn demanded to know if it was they who had attacked the wain. They said nay, with such looks of horror on their faces that you had to credit them. They said it was the work of a demon – a gûl. They had known nothing like it since the Winged Terror.”

My heart shrank into a knot. _The Winged Terror!_ During the Ringwars it was how people described the onslaught of the Nazgûl.

“The Nazgûl ring!” I gasped. “Were they able to describe _exactly_ what they saw?”

“Oh yes, in great detail, though they are a people with few words in their own tongue and hard to understand even in the Common Speech. The wain stopped and _gorgûn_ – orcs – got out. They were laughing away among themselves as they unrolled the carpet, clearly meaning to enjoy some diversion with their prisoner. The carpet was squirming, so the wild men were certain there was someone inside. But once the orcs had unrolled it – there was absolutely nothing and nobody to be seen!

“Then the orcs began running about this way and that, panic-stricken. As the wild men put it: their heads started to fly off all by themselves. It was all over in seventy heartbeats – fast heartbeats if you ask me, but I don’t think the wild men made any allowance for that. Then the wain caught fire and burnt to ashes.

“But you know, Goss, I wouldn’t say that sounded particularly like the handiwork of a Nazgûl, even if one _has_ come back to walk the earth. An orc would say it was a regular _tark_ trick, that.”

A lightning flash lit up my mind. “Elandrine!” I cried.

“Yes... ” said Gimli, “that’s the conclusion we’re coming to. Arwen’s not trained to do things like that, but Elandrine is. Now Aragorn is certain Arwen always wears her elf ring. If the rings of Power had all been enabled at the time of the kidnap, as you’ve been telling us, that would account for most of what the wild men describe. In fact for all of it, apart from the ferocity of the vengeance which the unseen person in the carpet wreaked on his – or her – captors. Let’s for the sake of argument say ‘her’.”

“ _Palantíri...!_ ” I cried. “The palantíri were in the wain when it left Minas Ithil! Is there any sign of them in the ashes?”

“I’m sure we’d have seen them if they were. But now you’ve told me that, we’ll have another look. Hold on – Aragorn’s coming over.”

After the terrible storm in my soul, the sun was breaking through! I couldn’t make sense of it yet, but one thing was clear. Queen Arwen was not lying dead, or in hateful bonds. She was free! In hiding maybe, but very much mistress of the situation.

And if it had not been Arwen in the carpet, but Elandrine – then... then I had to throw away all the lumber in my mind and rearrange the furniture. _That_ was going to take me some little while.

A lantern glimmer made me look up. A face appeared at the door grille. Hastily I covered the palantír ring.

“Just checking you’re all right,” said the guard.

He went away again. But he had clearly been able to see me, in spite of the fact I was wearing Nenya. So the rings of Power were not working any more. The palantíri, wherever they were, were no longer in contact.

Gimli came back on-line and I told him. He replied “The palantíri are not in the ashes – Aragorn’s sure of that – but we’ve found a footprint. A woman’s footprint! A fresh one – and the woman was almost certainly naked. Aragorn says he ought to be familiar with Arwen’s foot by now, or it’s high time he stuck himself on a slab in Rath Dínen. The woman who made the footprint is taller and more muscular than the Queen.”

“It’s Elandrine! It’s got to be Elandrine! It’s got to be!”

“Oh... ‘bye for now – we’re off! Tracking the footprints. They lead back towards Minas Tirith. Aragorn says if we make haste there’s a chance of catching up the person who made them.”

His face flickered out, but a moment later it came back. “And from what you’ve told us, she won’t be invisible now! Unless of course she has the palantíri... and can work them at will!”  



	19. On Trial for High Treason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

Since no daylight seeped down into my dungeon I had to count the meals that came in order to determine what day it was. By my reckoning I decided that it was after breakfast on Tuesday 16th May, the second day after the kidnap attempt and the 19th after the murder, that the guards came for me and marched me up the stairs, flight after flight of them, to the courthouse in the Citadel.

The courtroom was crowded. The news of Morfindel’s murder was out and hundreds of people came along to see who it was who was being arraigned for the crime. The court was hushed when I was brought in.

In the absence of the King, who ought to have been trying this case, they had brought an elderly judge out of retirement. The old fellow had been installed in the high seat and was being briefed by the clerk of the court. Such things, no doubt, as what the crime was, the name of the defendant, and whether he was guilty or not. That’s all a judge needs to know.

Glancing at the clerk of the court for reassurance that he was doing the right thing at the right time, the judge picked up his gavel and mumbled “Silence in court!” The gavel wouldn’t make a noise and it dawned on him that he was holding it the wrong way round. The clerk of the court hurriedly mounted up beside the high seat and resolved that little difficulty, whereupon the judge brought the gavel down smartly on the wooden block. By now of course the whole courtroom was watching him with curiosity, so silence reigned anyway.

The clerk of the court read the charges against me. One: wilful murder of a Ward of the King. Two: conspiring to abduct the Queen and hold her captive. Three: conspiring to kill the King and overthrow the lawful government of the Realm. Conviction on the first count alone carried the mandatory penalty of Death at the Stake, sentence to be carried out within the hour of conviction. The stake, I knew, would now already have been raised before the Great Gate.

From the prisoner’s box I was able to take a good look around to see who was in the courtroom. Imalad was prominent – he was clearly the chief witness, if not the actual prosecutor. There was no sign of Elandrine and I wondered if she was back yet from her exploits at the wain. I spotted Lady Éowyn sitting two rows back. I had a warm sense of relief that she was there. I couldn’t imagine her crediting the charges against me, and I knew she was quite capable of speaking her mind.

But my eyes scanned the courtroom in vain for Bergil. Where on earth _was_ he? He most of all would be the one to exonerate me. That’s if he wanted to – I wasn’t altogether sure of that. But I told myself that Bergil, whatever else he was, wasn’t malicious. He was a stickler for the facts, and if the facts didn’t support the charges he too would speak his mind.

Prompted by the clerk of the court the judge announced: “The Ancient Court of the Realm of Gondor is in session. Call the first witness.”

A little old woman was brought on and sworn in. She was a cleaner in the White Tower. She recognised Imalad as the “high personage” who had invited her to step inside the secret passage – one she hadn’t been in since she was a girl. Through the peepholes into the bedroom she had watched a “wicked person” swing a sword and cut off the head of a young man lying on the bed. She saw the head when it was picked up and recognised it as that of Morfindel son of Gollum. She was able to identify the said “wicked person” as me.

The next witness to be called was an elderly retainer who essentially corroborated the old woman’s evidence. He too had been induced to enter the secret passage and watch the proceedings in the bedroom. He added the intelligence that Captain Bergil was also present and agreed to the proposition that the latter must therefore be considered an accessory to murder.

I was still smarting at the audacity of Imalad in bringing such a charge against me, and by implication Bergil, and when I heard the evidence I’m afraid I sighed loudly and raised my eyes to the ceiling. But in the absence of both the King and Bergil I quickly realised my position was precarious. I began to wonder if Bergil had been deliberately detained to prevent him giving evidence. There was another thing. Imalad may well have been watching us secretly while we were in the bedroom. But how was he to know that I would cut the head off the body? It may have occurred to him to collect witnesses to the fact that Morfindel was dead in case there was a cover-up. I concluded that my cutting off the head simply offered itself to him as a bonus.

I had elected to conduct my own defence and I took the opportunity to cross-examine the witnesses. They weren’t too sure when they saw me cut the head off, but they knew it was in the morning of Friday 28th April. Now, myself apart, only the King, Bergil and Megastir, the Inspector of Corpses, knew the true time of death, namely nearly nine hours earlier. But Megastir was dead, Bergil was missing and the King I now knew had been persuaded to ride out on a wild goose chase. I thought to petition the court for an adjournment until the King returned. But I wasn’t sure my defence would withstand the other charges – and they too carried the death penalty.

Suddenly I began to despair. Imalad had laid his plans well. I was framed, good and proper. I decided that my only recourse was to put all the facts before the court and hope that someone would believe me enough to investigate the matter when I was dead and gone.

It turned out Imalad was indeed conducting the prosecution, and I must say he proved a formidable adversary. “We have heard the defendant’s evidence and he does not dispute the fact that he cut off the head of Morfindel son of Gollum, and that Bergil son of Beregond was present when he did it. And let it be duly noted that Captain Bergil has declined to present himself at this court to give evidence!

“But the defendant asks us to accept that the son of Gollum died nearly nine hours before! The reason he gives for cutting off the head – to establish the time of death – beggars belief! It is so absurd that in the absence of someone knowledgeable in these matters (I refer to the recent tragic death of the Inspector of Corpses) I propose that the court attaches no weight to this evidence.

“Yet just supposing that the son of Gollum had indeed been killed nine hours earlier, namely an hour before midnight. Is it not strange that at around the midnight hour the same Captain Bergil, who were he not missing might well be standing trial for his life alongside the defendant, was seen by many people going to the bedroom of the victim. I put it to you Your Worship that over the nine hour period in question either the accused or the missing witness killed or injured the victim and that what I and other witnesses saw was the final blow in this atrocious episode.”

Which I thought was pretty good for a boy scarcely cutting his wisdom teeth.

Now in cases of treason it has ever been the custom in Gondor to try the accused not before a jury, but before a judge assisted by three assessors. Since the assessors are all knowledgeable men, well versed in the law, this is considered a fairer system than a trial before peers, who rarely possess all that much legal knowledge. The Law of Gondor is ancient, complex and laced with legal precedents. So when presently the judge said “The accusation is proven” and Imalad appealed for sentence to be passed, the three assessors conferred among themselves and decided that the rest of the evidence ought strictly to be heard, providing the Council for the Defence so wished it. Quite clearly the judge did not wish it, being in no fit state for a prolonged trial and wanting only to get out of his heavy uncomfortable gown and first to the loo and then back home to his garden and his potting shed. When I elected for the evidence to be heard on all charges he groaned audibly and went into conference with his assessors. The chief of the assessors then turned to me and spoke for all to hear.

“Since you have already had an accusation proven against you, which carries the highest penalty that this court can hand down, it is a total waste of time to hear any more evidence. His Worship proposes therefore to award a more lenient sentence: you will be given a narcotic drug prior to burning so that you will feel no pain. If however you insist on all the evidence being heard then the sentence will be carried out with full rigour.”

I replied, “Under the Law of Gondor I cannot be convicted until all the evidence has been heard which either the prosecution or the defence wishes to call before the court. I declare that I am innocent of all the charges made against me and in token of that innocence I shall put truth before pain. I’m willing to suffer any agonies for the opportunity to place before all here present the terrible facts of this past fortnight.”

That of course was the last thing that Imalad wanted, not to mention the judge. But it was exactly what the crowded courtroom wished to hear. Particularly in view of the fact that the news of Morfindel’s death had been suppressed, and for such a long period. They wanted to know why! And a murmur and a hubbub arose like an incoming tide. With a pang of gratitude I saw Lady Éowyn rise to her feet.

“Your Worship! I beg leave to address this court!”

Now there was no denying Lady Éowyn (whom the judge knew well) anything she might care to beg, so he acknowledged her courteously and bade her speak.

“The son of Gandalf is correct, not only as regards a specialised point of law, but I think he speaks for all present, indeed for the whole people of Gondor, when he demands that all the evidence to hand be heard. This entire affair has been conducted in the shadows! Horrendous rumours are abroad, that the Queen herself has been abducted and that the King himself rides in pursuit of her captors! If the son of Gandalf can cast light on these happenings, he does us all a signal favour! Even if we then repay him for it by burning him in full possession of his faculties.” Having said that she sat down with a thump.

Everybody cheered. The judge called for order and picked up his gavel, but only succeeded in hitting his thumb. Immediately he was assisted by all three assessors plus the clerk of the court. Even Imalad hovered anxiously over the little press of people clustered round the high seat. But the judge waved them all away.

At that point the judge should have called on the Counsel for the Prosecution to speak first, but for some inconceivable reason he turned to me. I took advantage of the situation.

“I thank this court for allowing me to place the facts before the people of Gondor.” (Murmurs of assent.)

“I shall confine myself to the _facts!_ ” (Applause and a few cheers.)

“Facts indeed which many people do not wish to be made public. I stand here accused – indeed all but convicted – of capital crimes of which I’m wholly innocent. Nevertheless I shall not reply to accusations with counter-accusations. It is I that am on trial for my life today, not my learned friend the Counsel for the Prosecution. Though I venture to suggest that _were_ we to change places – he would be in just as much despair as I am now at the prospects of clearing his name and getting home in time for supper!” (Loud laughter.)

“So I challenge the Counsel for the Prosecution to corroborate everything that I shall say, most of which I imagine is to form the substance of the evidence he wishes to present against me anyway.” (Applause.)

Then to stifled cries of “Ooh!” and “Aah!” I detailed the extent of the treason of Morfindel son of Gollum, describing everything that took place in Hotel Doom and naming Imalad himself as my witness for the events at which both he and I were present. The rest I said were indisputable facts known to Grishnakh son of Grishnakh, the head of GUB. Since Commissary Grishnakh could not be present the court was at liberty to reject my evidence – which was immaterial anyway in view of the capital charge against me which still stood. But I wanted somebody with a passion for the truth as well as the law to establish these facts at their leisure after I had been executed.

At first the assessors tried to object that what I had to say had no bearing on the business of the court, which was solely to determine my guilt or innocence. Looking at Lady Éowyn I replied that I had been given leave to speak and that I resolved to do and that everything I said was relevant to the case, whether or not it serve to convict me or exonerate me. “What is more,” I added, “it is of sufficient importance for _everyone_ to know!” At that the courtroom cheered me mightily.

You could have heard a pin drop as I described my battle with the wargs and the demise of the underworld boss Grimwald Uruksson. Though when I had finished that episode the cheering was deafening. Grimwald Uruksson was hardly everybody’s favourite person. To show their satisfaction that the Realm was rid of him at last, people got to their feet, climbed on the benches, waved their arms and threw hats in the air. The judge tried to beat his gavel and again banged his finger.

I raised my hands and a hush fell on the courtroom. Thereafter the judge gave up his efforts to call the court to order and left it to me to do, sitting back to enjoy my story like everyone else. Everyone that is except Imalad.

Then warning the court that everything I was going to say would be amply corroborated by the Mandate authorities I launched into a description of the GUB raid on Guthmud’s hideout. A gasp went up when I described how we found Guthmud dead, yet the kidnap party had nevertheless set off and I had been unable to intercept the wain. Consequently the kidnap, so far as anybody knew, had proceeded according to plan (though whose plan it was now we weren’t sure) and to a successful completion. That is unless the King and his two close friends could overtake the wain and rescue the Queen before she arrived at the Tower of Orthanc.

I faltered. I was suddenly no longer laying before the court the facts as I knew them. It wasn’t my intention to deceive but I didn’t want to say anything about Elandrine’s exploits as Gimli had reported them to me. Because it suddenly occurred to me that if I did I would be placing the Queen in grave danger. Exactly from whom I wasn’t sure. But whoever intended the Queen to be sequestered in the Tower of Orthanc might well have done so to silence her and might well resort to desperate measures if they discovered her still here in the Citadel.

All of a sudden I saw Elandrine!

She was standing at the back in the gangway in full view of everyone. I couldn’t understand why the judge had not ordered her to sit down. Was his eyesight that bad? Then I saw that what I first took for scanty garments was black orc-blood spattering her naked skin. Her long black hair was tangled and dishevelled and she was clad in nothing but a sword-belt. As she stepped slowly and deliberately down the gangway, swinging her graceful hips and shapely breasts, I couldn’t understand why everybody wasn’t ogling her in consternation. Indeed why everybody was ignoring her!

My tongue stuck in my throat. I couldn’t utter another word. Why had I not seen her before? “I’m in a dream,” I told myself with utter conviction. “This is a dream. A nightmare...!”

As I stood there in stunned silence people gaped at me. They rose slowly from their seats. Guards began calling out to each other. Officials got up and started to rush about in all directions. To start with I thought it was simply because I’d stopped talking, but it soon occurred to me that this wasn’t the response of an audience to a performer who had suddenly dried-up on-stage. It was the response to a performer who had suddenly _vanished before their eyes_.

Then I realised why I could see Elandrine but nobody else appeared to do so. Both she and I were now invisible! Both she and I were in the world of the Rings! Someone had just brought the palantíri back into contact!

I grasped with fresh insight what it meant to be “struck dumb”. When something so utterly unexpected happens one is not only struck dumb but paralysed as well. A dumb, numb spectator to the events unfolding before my astonished eyes.

Elandrine descended the steps of the gangway and slowly advanced across the courtroom floor, her face stern, her eyes fixed on me. She had her hand on the hilt of her sword. Ignoring the people rushing around her, and being ignored by them in her turn, she advanced right up to me as I stood there in the prisoner’s box. With a shrill ring of steel she swept out her sword. Then carefully, deliberately, as if unleashing a bolt of lightning, she brought it swishing down. Had the blow fallen I would have been cloven from crown to crotch.

Instinctively I threw up my hand, the hand wearing Nenya, and caught her wrist. The sword flew out of her grasp, skated down my back and stuck quivering in the boards behind me. Seizing it and wrenching it out with an effort I backed away, facing her. My heart pounded like a paviour’s mallet. Then I leapt from the prisoner’s box and began running towards the exit. I was so aroused and, I’m ashamed to admit, so terrified that I’d have cut down anyone standing in my way. Fortunately nobody was. I did not bother to look round because I knew that Elandrine was racing after me, even though she was now without a weapon.

As I ran I tried to grapple with the fact that I had just disarmed a Rohan-trained shieldmaiden bare-handed, in the very act of striking me a mortal blow. Then I realised that I had been far from bare-handed. I was wearing Nenya. Elandrine too was wearing one of the rings of Power – I guessed Vilya, which the Queen would have given her prior to her mission. Or else she had taken by force.

I had heard it said that the elf rings would never endure weapons to be raised against each other. Now I understood what this meant. Two people wearing the elf rings were quite unable to strike blows at each other without being disarmed in the process. So it had not been mere chance that Elandrine had dropped the sword when I grabbed her wrist. By the same token, I too could not spin round and strike her down or I would be disarmed in my turn. I kept running, she hard at my heels.

The courthouse is in the Citadel, as I’ve already said, and as I ran out into the open air I found myself in the courtyard before the White Tower of Ecthelion. I ran onto the greensward in which the White Tree grows beside the silver fountain and as I ran my foot slipped on the wet grass. I fell – and Elandrine went tumbling over me. I was first on my feet and I turned to face her, brandishing the sword. In that instant I was smitten to the heart by the sight of her valiance and the naked fury of her bloodstained beauty. She rose to her feet and squared up to me, quite prepared to fight me with her bare hands, armed though I was – and with her sword, which I knew to be a good blade.

We paced cautiously round each other, each seeking an opening. Did she know about the elf rings? She was acting as if she did, so I saw no reason not to tell her.

“Elandrine, come no nearer! While we both wear the elf rings, we cannot be hurt by each other’s weapons. But if you so much as touch me, I shall tear off my ring and run you through.”

“You bastard! I’m going to _kill_ you!”

“Just as you killed Morfindel?”

“How... _dare_ you say that? You killed him yourself!”

“If you really believe that, why didn’t you let the court send me to my death?”

“What – and forego the satisfaction of slaying you myself? For your ill-treatment of the Queen?”

“Look Elandrine, I meant the Queen no harm. I tried to foil the attempt to kidnap her. It was by pure mischance that I failed. My fire horse...”

“You lie! I was there, hidden among the trees, when Gimli the Dwarf made contact with you by palantír ring. He told you plainly it had been _me_ , not the Queen, rolled up in the carpet. Why then did you lie to the court that the Queen had been successfully abducted? Once you said that, I was no longer in the slightest doubt of your guilt.”

“No Elandrine, that’s quite wrong...”

Suddenly a squad of guards dashed into the courtyard. Instantly Elandrine sprinted over to them crying, “Guards! Guards! To me! To me!”

They shied back visibly when, taking off her ring, she appeared before them, bare and bloody. “My Lady Elandrine!” one shrieked in dismay.

“Quick,” she said, “give me a sword! The prisoner is out there on the greensward. He is wearing a ring of Power which makes him invisible. But I can see him – when I too wear this ring of Power!”

Seizing a sword she ran back towards me shouting, “Follow me! Follow this sword, even if you cannot see me!”

I knew then what I needed – a disguise. Invisibility was no protection now. The guards had come from the armoury of course, having been recalled in emergency from their off-duty hours. Still invisible I managed to evade them as well as Elandrine and attained the archway from which they had come. Quickly I found my way to the armoury simply by thrusting against the flow of guards who were now emerging from it in large numbers. They must have wondered about the unseen body that pushed past them, not connecting it with the reason why they had been ordered to stand-to. Else with no room to wield the sword I would have been surrounded and captured easily.

As luck would have it, there standing behind the quartermaster’s desk was Glamdring, taken from me at my arrest. I quickly swapped it for Elandrine’s sword and kissed the blade. There were high winged helmets still on the racks and black cloaks emblazoned with the White Tree still on their stands. Rapidly I equipped myself and pulled off my ring. Just in time I managed to join the tail-end of a squad of guards leaving the armoury, at the very moment a sword floated in on its own, leading another squad of guards in the opposite direction.  



	20. The Murderer Unmasked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

My first thought was to scour the White Tower in my invisible state, searching for the Queen in order to mount guard over her. But I soon realised that wasn't a good idea. If I did succeed in locating the Queen I might simply lead her foes on to her. Elandrine likewise would think to guard the Queen with her body and it would precipitate a confrontation. No – my best strategy was to avoid Elandrine as far as I could and instead hunt down Imalad and somehow neutralise him. I strongly suspected that he was the heart of the mischief. If not – he was certainly playing a dangerous double-game.   
  
But so was I!  
  
Both Imalad and Elandrine had every reason to suspect me of treachery. Of course if they were the traitors themselves they would treat me as their chief enemy. But it would be hard for anyone to tell the difference. And that included me.   
  
Both wanted me dead. Both were hunting me down right now, with the full backing of the Tower of Guard. I must not let their enmity blind me to the possibility that both might be acting in good faith. Or rather – that both might be acting as agents of the Queen.   
  
Of Elandrine's loyalty to her royal mistress I could no longer be in any doubt. Of Imalad's double-dealing likewise – had he not murdered Guthmud and betrayed his own orc friends to death? That he was pursuing a different plan to the kidnap conspirators whilst appearing to go along with them was amply proven. Indeed his handling of them had been masterly. When the wain had arrived at the Citadel he must still have been successfully deluding his fellow conspirators that Morfindel was alive and that the fake Angrennan was real and in working order. If the palantíri were not in the wain, then he must still be in possession of them himself.   
  
But to what extent were he and Elandrine in league? Who was tricking whom? To the orcs in the wain everything would have appeared to be going to plan, even if they never saw the Angrennan doing its stuff, or indeed saw anything but a rolled-up carpet containing a woman when they went to collect it from Morfindel's bedroom. It all turned on whether Imalad knew that it was really Elandrine inside that carpet, or whether he imagined it was the Queen. It dawned on me that this was the key thing to find out.   
  
I decided to undertake a systematic survey of the secret passages and to make sure the way was clear between them all for my emergency use. It was unsafe to go wearing the ring all the time. Elandrine and Imalad had the other two elf rings and would be making use of them to locate me. On the other hand if I took off my ring, relying solely on my guardsman's uniform for disguise, I might escape their notice.   
  
Adjusting my helmet and rolling down its mithril mesh before my eyes I dashed up the main staircase to the King's bedroom. In normal circumstances I would have drawn attention to myself by doing this, but contrary to their usual behaviour, guards were dashing hither and thither in apparent disorder. Because they were now in battle-order, every man had his face masked by his mithril mesh, so it was impossible for one man to identify another except by speaking to him. Not knowing the password I had to avoid being spoken-to.  
  
I reached the door of the King's bedroom. A squad of six guards were standing across it, barring the way. Another squad of five guards had lined up before them, seeking admission to the bedroom in order to search it. I quickly lined up behind them as the sixth member of the squad, making it appear as if I'd been delayed. Nobody challenged me.   
  
Out of the corner of my eye I saw something flash into view. It was another person in guardsman's uniform, standing apart from the others, brandishing a drawn sword and watching me. I turn my head to look – but in that instant the figure vanished again.   
  
In a split second I realised what had happened. The palantíri had been briefly parted. Maybe this had been deliberate. Or maybe they were only in loose and hazardous contact and might at any moment part for good. But for a brief instant, somebody wearing a ring of Power had been revealed to me.   
  
I thanked my stars that I'd chosen not to be wearing my ring. There was a good chance that the hidden watcher had concluded that I was what I appeared to be – a delayed guard. Had I been wearing Nenya, the watcher would have realised immediately who I was.   
  
Who had it been? As far as I knew Elandrine was still running around naked. It was most likely Imalad – but if so he had lost no time in donning a guardsman's uniform since I'd seen him last in the courtroom.   
  
The squad began to file in through the door. Too late – I realised that each man was being asked the password. I thought I heard the man in front say "ghostly", but it couldn't have been that because hands flew out and grasped me as soon as I opened my mouth.   
  
I span round and fell to the floor, slipping on my ring. I slid out from under the struggling pile of men who fell upon me and slipped inside the bedroom. Instantly the men on both sides of the door began to fan out, shouting and swishing their swords at thin air.   
  
Since there were so few of them and they didn't search at all systematically they were easy to dodge. I made for the adjoining door to the Queen's bedroom. I opened it – it was unlocked! But behind it I came face to face with a similar door on the Queen's side of the archway. This was how the royal couple gained access to each other, whilst yet respecting each other's privacy. Though maybe it had not happened for a long while.  
  
For a moment I thought I was trapped. The guards, seeing the door open all by itself, rushed towards me with a yell. Desperately I pushed at the blank door – it opened! It too was unlocked. I slipped into the Queen's bedroom and turning round I applied the catch. Just in time, as the guards thumped into it from the other side. It was a stout door and resisted their hammering and kicking. I heard orders being given and I knew that men had been despatched through the open corridors to the Queen's bedroom (actually an appreciable distance away). Yet guards, I knew, would still be waiting behind the adjoining door.  
  
I looked round. The Queen's bedroom was empty, so far as I could tell. Two separate secret passages, I now knew, led from this bedroom. But I did not know how to access either of them.   
  
The fireplace was identical to the one in Morfindel's bedroom – to the point of concealing an identical hidden door! Naturally enough it was the first thing I tried. I slipped inside it and closed the door, just as the main bedroom door burst open and a score of guards plunged in.   
  
Through the spy hole I watched them searching the bedroom meticulously, opening cupboards and chests, probing under the bed with their swords and prodding the bedding. The urgency of the situation had overcome any reticence they might have had at treating the Queen's belongings so shamefully. In this of course their priorities were absolutely right. A Queen's belongings can be replaced – but a Queen not quite so easily.   
  
Eventually they gave up the search, formed up and marched out of the room. As I stood there in silence, debating what to do next, I heard voices. Women's voices.   
  
"I daren't show myself to you, my lady! I am unclad, just as I was in the carpet. Only now I am besmirched with blood."  
  
"My poor child! Are you bleeding badly? Come here and have no shame – I can heal the hurt."  
  
"No, Madam, it is not my blood. It is the blood of the orcs who would have captured you. I am in sound health. I must go now and seek that traitor, the son of Gandalf."  
  
"Take my cloak! Disregard the blood..."  
  
"If you'll permit me, Madam, I prefer to remain as I am. I still have blood-soaked work to do, and ever at need my adopted kinsmen would fight naked. It gives liberty to the limbs and the sword-arm."  
  
"But you're not a bare-sarker, my precious Elandrine! You're a woman!"  
  
"That is to my advantage. I go now, my Queen. Keep safe till I return. Farewell!"  
  
"Hurry back..." came Arwen's voice in a whisper. There was movement in the passage. I froze. If Elandrine was coming this way, one of us was about to die. But for a long time nothing happened. I stood in the darkness with bated breath.   
  
Taking my glowing palantír ring from my pocket I briefly looked about me. The hidden corridor went both ways. I'd found the entrance to both secret passages.   
  
I dared not use either. Quietly I crept back through the concealed door in the fireplace, stepped out into the bedroom, put on my ring and cautiously opened the main door into the corridor.  
  
  
  
  
There was a footfall and I turned round. There facing me was a solitary guard, sword at the ready. But I knew by the very clarity with which I could see him that this was no servant of the Tower of Guard. Like me he was clad in the black cloak and winged helmet, with the mithril mesh hiding his face. But like me he was invisible. Because – like me – he was wearing a ring of Power.  
  
The secret watcher! The figure I'd momentarily glimpsed!  
  
I swept out Glamdring. To my dismay the blade shimmered red like a flame.  
  
The implications struck me like a thunderbolt. It couldn't be Imalad! Imalad was in possession of Narya which the guards had taken from me. Glamdring was shining now as Frodo's sword had done – when he faced the Ringwraiths. I knew with the full force of conviction that whoever it was that confronted me was wearing the Angrennan. The _real_ Angrennan. The ring Morfindel had possessed when he was murdered. I was face-to-face with Morfindel's murderer!   
  
Wielding Glamdring with a cry I struck at my adversary with all my might. The sword he was armed with was nothing special – just the standard issue from the Citadel armoury. If I struck it at the right angle I could smash it with Glamdring. But whatever the quality of his sword I realised by the way he defended himself that as far as swordsmanship went I was vastly outclassed.  
  
This man had been trained by the Rohirrim. It told in every thrust and parry he made. I was up against a mighty warrior. Someone seasoned in battle, who had laid low adversaries far more powerful than any I had ever encountered. Against such a one the possession of Glamdring gave me no advantage – just the opposite. He had detected my intention to smash his sword and so caught my blows against it in such a way as to prevent that happening, jarring my arm with every blow. My fingers grew numb. At any moment Glamdring would be knocked spinning from my nerveless grasp.  
  
Whether my agility was the better of the two, or whether it was sheer terror that drove me, I found the strength to leap upon the banisters and launch myself to the top of one of the giant wardrobes which dotted the landing. For the moment at least, my opponent was unable to reach me. Like a treed cat with teeth and claws showing I helplessly pointed Glamdring at his heart.  
  
On top of the wardrobe there were some rusty swords which at one time had been hung as ornaments on the walls, likewise some spearheads and the tips of halberds. These I flung at my foe. But effortlessly he batted them this way and that and they went spinning and clattering away down the stairs, ringing like bells.  
  
I braced myself to leap down upon him, Glamdring swinging. I was hoping to deliver him a mortal blow as he was in the act of running me through, as he undoubtedly would.   
  
"Are you a man...?" I cried in challenge, "or a _nazgûl_?" 

My adversary sighed heavily, shoulders heaving as if pounding a mighty drum with both hand, flung down sword and tore off helmet, letting long golden hair burst forth.  
  
"I'm neither, you bloody fool! I'm a woman!"  
  
It was Lady Éowyn!  
  
"Goss, you clown! Why didn't you say it was you?"  
  
Sheepishly I slithered down from the wardrobe mumbling, "I thought you might have recognised Glamdring."  
  
"I thought I was fighting Imalad! I didn't know you'd got Glamdring back. And anyway – doesn't Glamdring shine blue when it faces foes?"  
  
"The ancient swords of Westernesse shone red when confronting one of the Nine," I said.   
  
Éowyn blinked and looked at the Angrennan on her hand. "Oh well, that explains it."  
  
"Lady Éowyn," I declared solemnly, "I charge you in the King's name to say how you come to be wearing that ring."  
  
"It's mine, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes but it was _stolen!_ "  
  
"Well I got it back!"  
  
" _How?_ "  
  
I could see her rapidly losing her temper with me. "Megastir recovered it from Morfindel's insides, if you must know. He returned it to me. Well-disinfected, I'm very glad to say! He tried to tell you but you were off gallivanting in Minas Ithil by all accounts, horsing around with young Aelvsson – Tom Bombadil's wayward spouse!"  
  
"Oh," I said, deflated.  
  
"When it became clear back in the courtroom that the rings had somehow got their power restored to them, or else you couldn't just have vanished like that, I went back and fetched mine and then helped myself to some suitable attire. There was clearly something afoot. Something involving an attempt on the life of either the King or the Queen – or both! I wanted to do what I could to prevent it. I needed my ring to see who was proposing to do what, and with what, and to whom!"  
  
I put my hand to my forehead. "Well, Lady Éowyn, I must say I'm really glad you're here. I was convinced I was fighting the murderer! But tell me something. Where did Megastir actually find the ring? I'm sure it wasn't on Morfindel's hand when I had the body sent to the mortuary."   
  
"I don't want to go into anatomical details, in front of someone non-medical..."   
  
"Don't worry about that! You'd be surprised what I've been in my life."   
  
"All right, then." Lady Éowyn took a deep breath. "I'll tell you Megastir's theory, as he expounded it to me." She looked carefully around and I did the same. "Morfindel was extremely good friends with Imalad, you know."   
  
"Imalad told me. I didn't know whether to believe him or not."  
  
"Imalad told you nothing but the truth. I would go so far as to declare that their relationship was one of unbridled intimacy. Now Morfindel had tricked me into letting him see where I kept my ring in the Houses of Healing – in order to help himself to it when my back was turned! I was wholly unaware of it having been taken until Megastir returned it to me.   
  
"Megastir – who was himself on fairly close terms with the pair of them (to what extent I don't dare guess and never liked to ask) – knew that Imalad coveted Morfindel's new ring. Which he, Megastir, already had his suspicions about. In a peculiar reversal of the story of how his father Gollum first came by the One Ring, Morfindel was murdered for my ring of Power when he refused to hand it over voluntarily. That's what Megastir believed, and he had excellent reasons for doing so."  
  
I slumped against the banisters. It all made sense!  
  
Éowyn continued. "He surmised that on the night of the murder they were larking about in the buff as usual. Morfindel must have taunted Imalad to find the ring for himself, having secreted it up his back passage in the conviction that Imalad wouldn't be able to get at it there. In his fury at being so taunted Imalad must have seized the poker and put his friend hideously to death in sheer frustration. He might of course have guessed where the ring was and been trying to probe for it, but it looked more like sheer madness. However Imalad had been in sufficient possession of his senses to be sure of one thing – he was careful not to spill Morfindel's blood!"  
  
"Whyever not?"  
  
"Oh, don't you know? Morfindel was halfelven. It's not a good idea to go spilling elf-blood – and that goes for blood of the halfelven too. When it touches the ground, it foams up into vapour, gets in your lungs and is apt to do you mischief."  
  
I gasped. "Imalad must have known that! But the poker would have needed at least ten minutes to heat up in the fire ...unless it happened to be there already! But that suggests a certain premeditation!"  
  
"No doubt! But Imalad is a very calculating young man. Morfindel would have been unaware of his actual intentions when they were indulging in their horseplay and may well have presented his posterior in jest or taunt! He knew of course that Imalad wanted the ring, but he didn't grasp to what lengths Imalad would go to get it."  
  
I could see it all now! That was why Morfindel had not needed to be restrained. Why there was no sign of a struggle, nor marks of ligatures on his wrists or ankles. Imalad could have done the deed single-handed and then escaped through the secret passage to the ground floor, just before Bergil discovered the body. It explained too what Bergil was doing at the door of Morfindel's bedroom at midnight – he could well have been trying to pounce on them at it, in view of the complaints he had received about the noise.  
  
It also explained why Imalad was searching so assiduously for the ring in Morfindel's bedroom and even thought to make an inspection of his body in the mortuary. And why he pursued Megastir for the ring, even to the point of killing him, and dissecting him in sheer desperation when he couldn't find the ring in the mortuary. And why he was so dismayed when he saw me put the fake ring on the table in front of Grimwald Uruksson.  
  
I had known without a doubt that Imalad was in on the plot. But I had wondered, or hoped, he was playing his double game, perhaps as an agent of the King, more likely the Queen. But he seemed to have been pursuing his own interests all the time.  
  
And what had they been? Primary to get hold of the ring, for much the same reasons as had motivated Morfindel, but nowhere near as well thought-out. It had all been sheer opportunism. Nothing pointed up so clearly the corrupting nature of a ring of Power. Especially one to have fallen under the spell of Sauron.  
  
If it were possible, the person by my side grew ever more gigantic in my regard. She, like her husband, had had no use for this corrupting thing, except for the medical application to which it might be put. As a curative, a palladian. Chiefly as something to be kept well out of sight – and where better than the cabinet of dangerous medicines? The only thing one could perhaps blame her for was not securing it sufficiently against the likes of Morfindel son of Gollum. And yet – hadn't he come bearing the King's credentials?  
  
  
  
  
Suddenly a cry of challenge rang out behind me. I turned to stare in the furious face of Elandrine, still naked and spattered with orc-blood.   
  
"Traitor!" she screamed. "Die now – like the rat you are!"  
  
Tearing off the elf ring she lunged at me in one and the same smooth movement. Instantly Lady Éowyn kicked me aside, sending me sprawling, and engaged with Elandrine herself.  
  
The instant Elandrine pulled off the ring, both of us must have vanished out of her sight, so she didn't know whom she was fighting. To have a ringside view of two shieldmaidens of Rohan battling it out would have been a rare spectacle, to be treasured for a lifetime! But Éowyn had the advantage of invisibility, as well as being the more experienced warrior. Effortlessly she got within Elandrine's guard and, grasping the girl's wrist, sent the sword spinning out of her hand. Then, twisting her wrist, she forced Elandrine to her knees. Two sharp smacks echoed along the corridor. Elandrine's cheeks glowed with the marks of long aristocratic fingers.  
  
Lady Éowyn flung the maiden to the floor and, pulling off her ring, revealed herself.   
  
"You stupid little hussy! Goss would never do a thing like that!"   
  
Elandrine fingered her cheeks as if they were bleeding. "Prince Imalad has told me the full extent of the son of Gandalf's treachery," she replied.   
  
"Your precious Imalad is the treacherous one! At this very moment he is searching for the Queen in order to kill her. Your proper place, when you've cleaned the worst off yourself, is by your mistress's side, defending her with your life!"  
  
I too pulled off my ring. Elandrine, mouth open, looked from one to the other of us. Whether it was by sheer force of Lady Éowyn's personality, or whether Elandrine knew in her heart of hearts she was telling the truth I do not know. But kneeling up and clasping her hands in deference she bowed to the older warrior. "I humbly apologise, Lady Éowyn," she said. "Do I have your leave to go?"  
  
"You'd better go right now. Forget the cleaning up – this is of the utmost urgency. Get to the Queen's side as quickly as you can. Goss and I will hunt down Imalad and head him off."  
  
Elandrine scrambled to her feet and, glancing uncertainly in my direction, picked up her sword and sped away.  



	21. Goss -- Save The Queen!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

Outside the Queen’s apartment, Lady Éowyn and I briefly conferred. We agreed that she should remain there in the bedroom, with the adjoining doors wedged open, against the possibility of Imalad coming that way.

I took my leave of her and making my way through the same doors to the King’s apartment entered the secret passage leading to Morfindel’s bedroom. When I reached it I had to walk carefully – there was no carpet (it was lying miles away in Grey Wood, unrolled upon the ground) and the floorboards creaked.

A freshly made fire was blazing in the grate. With a pang of dismay I saw a poker in the blaze. I pulled it out – it was glowing white hot! I left it by the grate to cool down.

Who had done that? The servants of the White Tower were not in the habit of leaving the poker in the fire when they lit it. I assumed the worst. Imalad had left it there against the chance of discovering the Queen and needing to kill her without spilling elf blood. My heart went bump and the hairs on the back of my neck crept with horror.

A creaking noise made me place my ear to the wall. Someone was creeping along the hidden corridor. I looked around wildly and then hid myself under the bed. I had a profound sense of deja vu.

The hidden door beside the fireplace opened and Imalad crept out, large as life. He was still dressed in the sober clothes he had worn in the courtroom. But he was carrying a drawn sword.

Putting on Narya he glanced keenly round the room. He looked shrewdly at the bed. Very slowly he came across and made ready to probe under it with his sword. But before he could do so, his head span round at a shuffling sound from the fireplace. Elandrine emerged from the very door he had just come through. She must have come along the other secret passage of course, the one from the Queen’s bedroom. Whereas Imalad had come up from the main entrance hall, as he had done the first time I’d met him.

Rising slowly to his feet Imalad gazed at her in utter consternation.

“Whatever happened to you? Why are you naked – and covered in blood? And unless I’m much mistaken, it is not man-blood, but orc-blood!”

Elandrine smiled wanly and shrugged. “Much has happened since we parted...”

Imalad scratched the back of his head. “It has indeed! The son of Gandalf vanished away before our very eyes in the courtroom. Those fools had allowed him to keep hold of one of his rings. Fortunately I was able to grab the other ring from the guardroom and set off in search of him.”

“I tried to kill him in the courtroom,” said Elandrine. “Did you not see me?”

“No...” replied Imalad, with eyebrows raised.

“It was at that point he became invisible,” continued Elandrine. “And I too. Though I hadn’t intended it. I wanted everyone present to see me take my revenge.”

Imalad said, “I took the palantíri with me out of the wain and I have since put them in a safe place. I made certain not to place them in contact, but somehow they must have rolled together. Which must be how he became invisible and so escaped.”

A look of puzzlement crossed his brow. “But as for you... How come you too have a ring of Power? For I see full well that you are in the invisible world like me.”

“It is the Queen’s ring I’m wearing. I secretly accompanied her on the wain. And the reason I am covered in blood is because I had to punish the orcs – for daring to lay hands on my Mistress!”

From where I was lying I could only just see Imalad’s face, but I thought the look of disgust that he put on was less than sincere.

“Ugh! Serves them right. I told them not to dare do that.”

Lying there beneath the bed, my mind went back to our breakfast together in Hotel Doom, at which I had told him about Arwen’s worst nightmare. Right now he was wearing exactly the same open boyish look. I clenched my fists. Far from forbidding the orcs to molest Arwen, he may actually have ordered it!

I saw a look of doubt steal across his face. “Is the wain still on its way? You didn’t kill them _all_ , did you?”

Elandrine too must have noticed something in Imalad’s voice, for I saw her face harden. “The wain is going exactly where it was planned to go,” she said with deliberation.

Imalad lowered his head and shook it, smiling grimly. “It doesn’t matter now. Aragorn and the royal companions have ridden in pursuit. They cannot fail to overtake it.”

“And so the Queen will be saved...?” Elandrine masked her voice with honey – but not nearly well enough. “And so she will be brought back here?”

Imalad looked up in alarm. “Yes! Yes – of course! Be at ease. No harm can come to her now.”

“How can you say that?” she snapped. “Is not the son of Gandalf still at liberty – here in this Tower?”

Imalad was momentarily stuck for an answer. He doubtless had three or four answers contending for his tongue, but he must have realised that none of them would serve.

Elandrine raged at him. “You told me that the Queen had to be kidnapped, just as Morfindel planned – to protect her from the son of Gandalf! Not to mention Captain Bergil – and any other palace plotters working for the King!”

“Well – yes! That’s right, but...”

“Then she is not safe at all! Maybe she is in danger from more people than I ever dared suppose?”

Imalad must have decided that his best defence was attack. “Did you kill _all_ the orcs in the wain?” he shouted at her.

“Yes!” she cried in defiance. “Every one!”

“Then... who is looking after the Queen now? Where is she?”

“That is for me to know and you to find out. What plans did you _really_ have for my mistress?”

Imalad’s eyes narrowed. “Was the Queen ever in the wain? Was it _you_ rolled up in the carpet instead of her?” He strode up to her, making as if to clutch her with his left hand. She evaded his grasp and stepped smartly behind him, mutely reminding him that she too carried a sword.

Realisation dawned on Imalad. “She was never in the wain! She is still here – in the White Tower! Is it not so? Where have you hidden her?”

Elandrine now spoke with cold fury. “You never wanted to save her at all! You wanted her kidnapped... imprisoned... killed! Anything to silence her! Why?”

“No, Elandrine,” cried Imalad, clinging to the shreds of injured innocence. “You’ve got it all wrong!” But he could see that the game was up.

“Because he is convinced that Queen Arwen knows he murdered Morfindel,” I said, sliding out from under the bed and getting to my feet. I thought it was high time I intervened before Elandrine struck him dead. I wanted to make an arrest.

Imalad staggered back spluttering and his face went red. “You!” he cried. “You!”

“ _Murderer!_ ” Elandrine’s sword whistled through the air and came down with a heavy clang on Imalad’s defensive blade. Sparks showered across his face. I fully expected both swords to fly from their hands. When they didn’t I knew that the palantíri must have come apart again. The rings were no longer enabled!

The two erstwhile lovers fought with fury and skill. I had hoped that my presence might tip the balance and force Imalad to capitulate without a fight. But I quickly discovered I was only in the way.

Suddenly Imalad flung the bedding at Elandrine and made a bolt for the concealed door. Duck-feathers flew as Elandrine slashed at the counterpane. I tried to trip him up but it failed to fell him. Thrusting my fingers into the crack to prevent the door shutting and being locked from the inside I had them painfully crushed.

“Stop him!” yelled Elandrine. “Don’t let him reach the Queen!”

Wrenching the door open with my good hand I thrust myself through the gap after him. A breeze carried a copious quantity of feathers in with me. That should have warned me, but it didn’t.

Imalad knew far more about these passages than I did. He knew that there was a trap door he could release to throw off pursuit. Down this I plunged. It was a pitfall – filled with sticky tar in which knives were concealed. I would have died agonisingly had not something firm broken my fall, like an island in the pool of tar.

“Goss!” Elandrine’s anxious voice came down to me. “Are you all right?”

“Be careful! Yes, I don’t think I’m hurt. But I’m stuck fast in tar! I’m standing on a body.”

I took out my palantír ring and inspected the corpse by its glow. It was Bergil son of Beregond. He had been dead for three days. No other reason need be sought for his failure to appear at the courthouse.

“Goss – I’ve got to get across! Is it very wide? I can’t see...”

“Too wide to jump across without hitting your head.” An idea struck me. “I know! – skip across on my shoulder. I’ll brace myself firmly. I won’t let you fall.”

She didn’t need telling twice. As her foot dashed down on my shoulder a bolt of pain shot through me and her ankle nearly scraped my ear off, leaving it ringing like a bell. But she got across.

A minute or two later Lady Éowyn, no doubt hearing noises in the secret passages, came and peered down at me stuck in the pitfall. With a struggle she pulled me out, having first torn sheets into strips to make a sort of rope.

“What has happened?” I asked. “Did Elandrine stop the rascal?”

“No! He had a start on her. And he got to the Queen first. He’s just dashed out of the front entrance with her over his shoulder. Come on quick – follow me!”

I slipped and stumbled after Lady Éowyn across the courtyard of the White Tree, sliming the greensward with tar. Hurrying through the gate of the Citadel we came upon a dreadful scene.

A hundred guards there must have been, clustered in a crescent about Imalad. The Queen was on his shoulder and his back was to a precipice. The guards hung back, not knowing what to do. He was threatening to throw Queen Arwen over the edge, or to jump over himself with her still on his shoulder. Bowmen had their arrows trained on him but they held their fire, not being sure of their shot. I stood there powerless, Lady Éowyn by my side.

Then, against all hopes, Prince Imrahil himself arrived on the scene, having been brought hither by the day-old news of his son’s involvement in fell deeds. His arrival seemed to calm the lad. Gruffly the old man ordered his son to yield him the person of the Queen. As everyone stared with gritted teeth, Imalad complied, handing her over like a floppy doll.

But then, as his father turned and placed Queen Arwen in the arms of the nearest guardsman, something snapped inside the boy. Clutching at the back of Prince Imrahil’s coat he made as if to haul them both over the edge together.

Prince Imrahil promptly threw himself down upon his back. His feet came up and fetched his son a resounding blow. As Imalad teetered on the brink I rushed forward, wrenching aside the shoulders of the guards to get through the ring. The instant I saw him go over I had the presence of mind to utter the first word of my timing charge. Reciting it to myself I crawled to the edge and peered over, watching Imalad float down and down, turning head over heels, until he came to an abrupt stop and turned no more.

The Citadel is built out over the rocky chine which cleaves the City in two. It juts out over the Great Gate, allowing defenders to rain missiles down upon besiegers from a height of 750 ft. It takes a man eight seconds to fall that far. The last word I uttered of my charge told me that, and what is more, it tallies with my calculations.

There are two theories of falling bodies. Some claim that a man falls ever faster and faster. Others claim that, having reached a speed of about 200 miles an hour, thereafter a man falls with constant velocity. According to the second theory Imalad hit the ground just as hard as if he had fallen from the stars. Alas, 750 ft is at the critical point between the two theories and so Imalad’s death furnished support for neither over the other. The end of his wretched life didn’t even advance Science.

If it takes a man eight seconds to fall from the Citadel to the Great Gate, it takes a man a quarter-of-an-hour to make the same journey going by the steps and the stairs and the winding streets, zig-zagging deosil and widdershins to thread the intermediate gates from the Sixth Circle down to the First. Thus I came at length upon the young man’s body, gathering flies on the dusty ground.

Imalad had been wearing my elf ring on his right hand, which now lay beneath him. I had to probe through flesh and gore to retrieve it. As I held it up to the sunlight I could see not a scratch on it, although it was bent a little out of true. As I squatted there, covered in tar and duck feathers from the slashed bedding, the King rode up, accompanied by Legolas and Gimli. Approaching on foot to within sight of the City, they’d come again upon their faithful steeds waiting for them by the roadside. Thus they had been able to mount up and ride back to the City with some dignity.

I rose to my feet. Aragorn peered closely at me before he could be sure who it was that stood there, stained and splashed as I was with tar and stuck liberally with feathers.

“Morfindel’s murderer lies before you, Sire. The Queen is safe. I must apologise for my offensive condition. I fully understand if you do not wish to embrace me.”

Aragorn put his head back and roared with laughter. “Goss! Covered in muck as usual!” Then growing suddenly sober he climbed down from his horse and stood staring at the shattered body, his arm draped loosely around my neck. Legolas and Gimli stood the other side of me, doing the same.

“Imalad!” said the King. “I can tell by his hair. Alas – that it had to be him!”

I said, “His father it was who propelled him over the brink.”

Aragorn turned and looked at me like a man waking from a bad dream. “Did he now! What a capital fellow – to make a family matter out of it! I was just starting to agonise over how to break the news to him.”

At that instant, unaccompanied by guards or servants, Queen Arwen came running forth from out of the Great Gate. She flung her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed him passionately and long. And thus they stood in close embrace, oblivious of the world around them, as if they were standing alone once more upon a moonlit sward, strewn with blooms of elanor and niphrodel.

I’m a reckoner of times and seasons. According to my computations, Crown Prince Eldárion would have been conceived that very night. Lady Éowyn does not disagree with me. But of course she attends the Queen on matters of midwifery and so enjoys first-hand knowledge of events I can only compute for myself.  



	22. Last Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Minas Tirith, Minas Ithil and Mordor, nearly 50 years after the Ringwars, Goswedriol, the bastard son of Gandalf, teams up with Goldberry to investigate the frightful murder of Morfindel, the King's Favourite and arch wheeler-dealer, treading on toes all the way. JRR Tolkien Meets James Bond and Agatha Christie. Crime thriller, whodunnit, bestseller, superficially satire, but with some angst & mystery, extends canon but avoids bending it. Canonical characters are faithfully portrayed (sic!) or fleshed-out.

With an encouraging smile the handmaiden ushered me through the open door. "Her Majesty is pleased to see you now," she said.  
  
I walked swiftly into the Queen's presence. But as I stood before her I was lost for words.   
  
"Dearest Goss," she said in the high tongue of Gondor, "so all is well that ends well. And you, not least, have we to thank for that!"  
  
Still words would not come, but tears sprang forth instead. In confusion I flung myself down on my knee before her and took her soft white hand in mine. As I kissed her fingers I saw Vilya restored to her hand. Where, it is prophesied, it will remain whilst she yet walks on Middle Earth.   
  
"Dearest Queen," I said at last, "I've come to beg forgiveness..."  
  
Her voice lilted like a nightingale. "For what, may I ask?"  
  
"When earlier we met in the Mallorn, you had a boon to crave of me. And I, with my mind fixed upon the King's commission, fled before your face."  
  
She reached forward and touched my brow. "Kinsman," she said laughingly, "all that is long forgiven and forgotten."  
  
"The Lady Elandrine it was who called me to order and made me realise how much I had offended you. And rightly were you offended. Rather should I have pledged my loyalty and my undying devotion. As I do now, my Queen."  
  
She leaned forward and urged me to my feet. As I arose she slipped her arms round my neck and kissed me on the lips.   
  
"Now let me tell you something, my dear Goss. When we met at our tryst in the Mallorn, you saw before you a frightened woman. Nobody can tell what truly will be, but much that comes to pass is revealed to me before it happens. I was terrified by what I foresaw. I saw myself going alone and without friends, even unto the very stake, should I be blamed for the son of Gollum's death. I was determined therefore to gather secret allies and I was ready even to thrust elf kinship before obedience to the Law of Gondor. My people would not have disapproved, but that is not the way kingdoms are held together. Sometimes they are only held by the shedding of the blood of their King. Or of their Queen.   
  
"Were it not for you, all this might well have come to pass. So I say to you, dearest son of Gandalf, go in peace and tread your way down the branching pathways of the years, knowing you have the friendship, nay the love, of the Queen of Elves and Men."  
  
And so with deep obeisance I made to take my leave. But before I did I had this to ask.   
  
"My Queen, one small boon I crave. I would not have the Lady Elandrine continue to think ill of me, nor carry her resentment to the grave. I wish her to know how much I admire her. Though she scorn me, I would return instead feelings of heartfelt respect. Please implore her to think better of me."  
  
Queen Arwen smiled, as if to share a playful secret. "Why don't you tell her yourself?" she said.   
  
With a sweep of her hand she bade me look behind her, and lo! – there was Elandrine, squatting down on the floor behind a game of Fox and Geese, which she and the Queen had been playing before I was admitted. Not expecting to see her in so uncourtly a position I had quite overlooked her presence.   
  
She rose to her feet and danced her way over to me so swiftly that I did not see how she could possibly stop when she reached me. As indeed she didn't. Instead, with arms flung about my neck, she dashed her lips to mine and kissed me rather more voluptuously than the Queen had thought fitting. (But that's what you keep ladies-in-waiting for.)  
  
When our lips parted, leaving us gasping for breath, I said to her. "Lady Elandrine, I did so want to apologise to you too."  
  
"Goswedriol son of Gandalf, you've got precisely nothing to apologise to me for. But I've a mind to make you! Because I'd dearly love to hear your side of the story. I only arrived at the tail-end of your star performance in the courthouse."  
  
Clearly by pre-arrangement, she raised her eyebrows to her mistress for her approval of what she was about to say. "Of course, child," said Queen Arwen sweetly to her unvoiced question. "And there's no need to hurry back."  
  
Elandrine turned to me with eyes sparkling. "What say you then to a picnic? Just you and me, where we can laze in the grass and pass the time and just talk?"  
  
"I'd love that! When?"  
  
"Tomorrow? For they say the day will be fine." Again I saw her turn to her mistress for surreptitious confirmation.   
  
And so it was that on the morrow, barefoot, in simple peasant dress and radiant smile, she met me at the Great Gate of Minas Tirith, basket on her arm, and we raced each other to Snowmane's Howe. There on top of a grassy mound, the breeze toying with her silken hair, she tore bread for me by the handful, and with neither glass nor goblet, as though it were a kiss, we shared a bottle of wine. So passed a joyous day in pleasant discourse and much laughter.  
  
And that was that. Apart from our adventure we haven't got a great deal in common and we haven't arranged to see each other on a regular basis. But we parted friends.  
  
Personally I think she's a plum candidate for Bergil's vacant job: Captain of the Tower of Guard, if they can jerk themselves out of their hidebound mentality and appoint a woman to the post. I've said as much to the King. But I gather he's of a mind to marry her off to some hero or other. Some splendid chap who's been so busy in the King's service he hasn't had a lot of time to go around picking a wife for himself.  
  
"Come back to court," said the King, "and I'll give her to _you_."  
  
"Alas, Sire," I replied, "even with such an inducement, methinks my travelling days are not yet done. Ever have I made a better bounty hunter than a courtier. And thus might I serve you every bit as well."  
  
"Are you still of a mind then to continue your suit of Mistress Goldberry?"  
  
"That, Sire, is not for me to choose. But one thing I am of a mind to do, and that is make my peace with old Tom Bombadil. After that – the Stars shall choose my path."  
  
  
  
  
The young nurse who opened the door smiled coyly at me. Spring had been late in Ithilien that year, but I thought to myself how around that time even an orc maiden looked pretty.   
  
I entered the timber lodge nestling among the pine trees, built above the wartime secret bunker of Henneth Annûn, and followed closely behind the nurse. She led me past richly carved tables and chairs decked with cheerily gaudy cushions, down the long winding staircase to the banquet hall, which is kept just as Frodo saw it. The sun was going down behind the distant mountains of the Ered Nimrais, but you couldn't actually see them behind the vast rippling curtain of the waterfall. Instead the sunset lit it up and made it look like a wall of descending flames.   
  
Old people sat around hunched in blankets, silently bearing the burden of their twilight years, with little energy or inclination to turn their gaze to meet newcomers. Giving me a sweet smile, Lady Éowyn picked her way between the bath chairs to meet me. She was wearing the uniform of the Sanatorium, of which she was foundress and matron and, as usual, looked thoroughly in her element. I could not even imagine her now in the tall mithril helmet of the Tower of Guard, her shoulders draped in a cloak of black and silver, wielding a sword. Positively for the last time, as she assured us all afterwards.  
  
"Why, Goss, how nice to see you here! And you've come at the right time to admire our glorious asset."  
  
"That I am doing, Lady Éowyn. And I'm even thinking of booking my place here for when I'm old enough to need it." Laughingly she took that in the spirit I meant it.   
  
"I've come to see Tom," I said.   
  
Instantly her face grew grave and wistful. "Tom passed away the day before yesterday."  
  
" _What?_ You mean... why that's impossible!"  
  
"No, not impossible. Just unexpected."  
  
I sat down hard in the nearest chair.   
  
"I simply can't believe it! Why – Tom can't just die! He's immortal! He's part of the scenery...!"  
  
Lady Éowyn sat down too, gently placing her hand on mine. "All things change", she said. "All things come to an end. Why, there are vast boulders out there, on the fair slopes of Ithilien, that haven't moved for a hundred thousand years. Then suddenly one day they tumble into the valley. How can we deny that such things happen, when the evidence is all around us?"  
  
I looked at her and tried to speak, but only baby sounds came out. I felt so silly.   
  
"Tom was something left over from a previous age," she explained, patting my hand. "We are into a New Age now. Much that was has passed away. Much that looks so new now will look so ancient in a few years' time that people will think it's always been there. And they will be so surprised when one day it falls over with its feet in the air."  
  
"Where's Goldberry?" I said.  
  
"Goldberry came, kissed Tom's brow, and left."  
  
I gaped.   
  
"Was that all? Didn't she have anything to say?"  
  
"What was she supposed to say?"  
  
I had no answer to that. It seemed so final.  
  
"No," continued Éowyn, "she paid-up for Tom's stay, paid us to make arrangements for the funeral, and then took her leave. She didn't say where she was going."   
  
"Did she say anything? I mean – did she leave any message? ...For me?"   
  
Lady Éowyn blinked as if she was trying to remember something. "Oh yes! She did leave a letter. I think it's addressed to you. Here, I'll just go upstairs and get it."  
  
This is what I read, by the light of the dying sun upon falling waters, the great upside-down fiery curtain of Henneth Annûn, Window on the West...  
  
  
  
======  
  
Henneth Annûn, Friday the 19th of May, Year 48.  
  
  
Dearest Goss, my travelling companion, my lover, my friend,  
  
Job done. Time to go.  
  
It was great fun while it lasted. But it was too good to last.  
  
And now let me explain myself. I'm sure you never did believe the story of why I left the Old Forest to come all the way down here. Grimwald didn't. But he doesn't matter. You do.   
  
Tom hasn't really died, you know. He's just gone back to where he started. And I'm going with him.   
  
Old Tom was very wise, you know, for all he used to clown about and say silly things. We'd watch the world unfolding in the little pools which the swirling river cuts in its grassy banks. And most of what we saw was a delight to us. The world unfolding as it ought. But sometimes what we saw was sad and grim. And yet we stayed sitting in our little house in the woods and we never felt the need to interfere, to warn or advise, unless someone came knocking on our door. Then I suppose we tried to make up for it by giving all the help we could.   
  
But one day there comes the dawn of a New Age. It's no longer an option to sit there and let the world go by. Because it isn't going to go by. It's encroaching all the time. It's eating away its banks. In the end it will sweep away everything that stands still.  
  
Old Tom knew this. One day he said to me, "Goldberry my girl, we can't just sit by and let this thing happen!" And so we hatched a plan. Tom took it hard, and so did I, but we packed our bags and left our little cottage, knowing we'd never see it again. We sailed down the big river to the big city and we went to places we'd never choose to go, and saw sights you'd never want to see.   
  
Both Tom and I knew that to really take part we had to roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty. I shall never forget that night we met up in Minas Ithil, you and I. At first I was only an illusion in your eyes, just a projection of your fantasies. And then you made the discovery that there was flesh and bone underneath. That could well have been the end of it.  
  
But then this awkward thing called Love cuts in. The Love machine. All of a sudden, Goss, you reckoned your own safety – your continued existence – not worth a candle next to the idea that I was burning to death. And in my turn I knew then I was going to have to go all the way with you – right to the bitter end. And goodness! Didn't it look bitter at times!  
  
I came to know that the fate of kingdoms is tightly bound up with my own little life. Tom and I said to each other that in all our years, this present age, this here and now, has been the best hope ever to arrive on the scene for Middle Earth. I know! – that's what we say every time! But, just for once, we couldn't stand idly by and see it all collapse again in shame and disorder.   
  
And so I battened on to you, hoping to play some small part in the crucial events of the last few weeks. I knew that to do so I would have to suffer pain and degradation and be dragged in the muck. But I found a man who knew all about muck – and neither revelled in it, nor let it stop him dead while he looked for a way round... which might not have been there. And so we achieved something worth looking back on. For you anyway, if not for me. Because I'm only a river nymph, a projection of your watery fantasies. Like I was of Tom's.  
  
Now that Tom's gone I'm just going to evaporate. I shall leave Henneth Annûn and I shall give myself to the waterfall outside and let myself be borne away to the Great River, and thence down to the sea. I shall become foam upon the waves. I shall rise up with the sunlight to the clouds. And then I shall fall upon mountainside and forest and trickle into brooks and streams and rivers... and that's the way the world goes round.  
  
But Goss, my love, don't grieve. We _will_ see each other again! You'll see me, to a greater or lesser extent, in the face of every girl you meet from now on. Because that's my nature – that's me.

======

She had initially signed-off at this point – and a tear had fallen on the paper. But she had scratched out her signature and taken another sheet...

======

I tried to be helpful, but I'm afraid I was an awful burden on you. Yet I like to think I did my little bit in the end. Tom had a palantír, you know. Or perhaps you don't. It's the Stone of Amon Sul. The sea nymphs, my sisters, recovered it from the ice-wreck of Arvedui Last-King's ship and entrusted it to our care. Because, like us, they knew it shouldn't just drop out of history. They knew it had one more part to play in the unfolding of the world. Now I'm taking it back to the sea.  
  
When we parted in the bistro in Minas Ithil, before I followed you to Minas Tirith, bringing Snargy as you asked, I went back and fetched Tom's palantír from my apartment. While you were in prison I crept secretly into Rath Dínen, where the kings of Gondor lie sleeping eternity away. When they brought you upstairs for trial I was once again sitting on the tomb of Denethor, watching it all happen. Just like Tom and I used to do by the pools of the Brandywine. Once again I took the blackened palantír from Denethor's scorched hands (he was always thinking about the Ruling Ring, and it's locked in there – you can see it in among the flames!) and I touched it against the Stone of Amon Sul. Tom lent me all his strength – I have none of my own that does not go with the river's flow. He gave me everything he had to give.  
  
I was watching you the whole time. When Elandrine came down the steps to strike you dead in front of the whole court, she hadn't wanted you and her to be invisible. She wanted to make an exhibition of herself making an example of you. To give you a chance – by cloaking you in the protection of the elf rings – that was my little contribution.  
  
Then, in that last mad dash through the bedrooms and secret stairs of the White Tower, I switched the power of the rings on and off by touching and parting the palantíri. You may have wondered why the rings would suddenly work one minute and not the next. Well, that was me nudging you along. And then, when that horrible Imalad met his end – in that very instant Tom expired, and I flopped back on the marble slab beside the old steward. It was hours before I could make the effort to put his palantír back in his bony fingers, pick up Tom's and drag myself back to Minas Ithil in time to catch the stagecoach out here.  
  
Have fun with Elandrine. I shall miss you both.   
  
Love, G.  
 **X**  
  
======  
  
  
  
I sat there letting the tears stream down my face. Lady Éowyn didn't say anything. She just went and got me a cup of hot camomile tea and sat and waited. She didn't ask questions. She just let me cry it out of my system.  
  
Then I got up, took my leave of Lady Éowyn and went in search of Snargy. He was playing on the grass outside, even though it was too dark to see much by. He wouldn't come in. He doesn't like old people. At that age you don't have to bother with them, do you.  
  
"Have you been crying?" he accused.  
  
"Don't be silly," I sniffled. "Big men like me don't cry."  
  
We mounted up on Bess and plodded back to Osgiliath by way of Minas Ithil, where we stopped off for an ice cream each at the bistro with the green slatted chairs.  
  
"What'll we do now?" asked Snargy.  
  
"How'd you fancy going way out East tomorrow, beyond the Sea of Rhûn?"  
  
"What's out there?"  
  
"Well, that's where old Treebeard got himself chopped up for firewood. He was looking for the entwives, so Quickbeam told me over a bucket of green water. He called Treebeard a silly old fool."  
  
"Well he was, wasn't he?"  
  
"Look here my boy. Don't you see? What if we find the entwives – where Treebeard failed? Think of the fame! Think of the money! Why, the ents alone now..."  
  
"What will the ents do for us?"  
  
"Well... we'll be set up in buckets of green water for life!"  
  
  
  
  
  
\---THE END ---


End file.
